


Trust Fall

by machi_kun



Series: what we share (and what we hide) [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Doctor Strange (2016), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, BAMF Steve Rogers, BAMF Thor (Marvel), BAMF Tony Stark, Civil War Team Iron Man, Comic Book Science, Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fix-It, Honest Conversations About Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Metafiction, Mutual Pining, No character bashing, Plot Driven, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Shameless Self-Indulgence, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, Trust Issues, Unreliable Narrator, but some things just need to be said, everyone is a BAMF honestly, i will stare canon right in the face as i tear off its every single limb, im not playing around marvel, its a conspiracy theory of a fanfic let me tell you, not exactly enemies you know what i mean, plot heavy, watch me exploit all the plot holes mcu left behind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2019-08-01 11:33:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 106,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16283831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machi_kun/pseuds/machi_kun
Summary: Tony has always been creator and destroyer, a man who can reach out and touch and make the world burn or gleam gold, or both; And he never knows which one it’ll be until it's too late. But for all he is a man of science, he cannot deny the obvious, cruel,cruelirony of his curse, of his legacy, of his fate - Of this mission he’s been given, seemingly, by the universe itself.Tony once built himself a new heart with a box of scraps. Now, he will have to find a way to bring back life directly from the ashes.And if he does not burn himself to the ground on the way, maybe – justmaybe, he will live long enough to see his world turn to gold one last time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. Infinity War, huh. What’s up with that?
> 
> Listen. I’m not gonna sit here waiting for Avengers 4 to come around to try and save the massacre that happened in Infinity War. Let’s be honest, I trust the MCU writers about as far as I can throw them, so I might as well finish what I started. I’ve been playing with this idea for a while, since before IW was released, but now IW has provided some new facts, it’s time for me to pick these facts apart and see how they fit among the collection of headcanons I gathered over the years. It’s a wild ride. Also kind of a mess.
> 
> A lot of the things I built this upon come all the way back from Age of Ultron. Yes, you read that right. No, we are not pretending it didn’t exist. AoU is garbage in a lot of ways, but to be perfectly honest, that’s exactly why I’m using it. You know the saying ‘one man’s trash is another man’s treasure’? To me, AoU is the perfect example of it, and you will soon learn that I am an opportunist of the worst kind. Don’t give me an opening, because I will use it; and there’s a lot of interesting tidbits of information Marvel just left hanging around there, ready for the taking, so this is me picking them up and stitching them together into a single plot. Because of that – besides obvious spoilers for Infinity War – there’s a lot of references to previous movies, especially Avengers 1, AoU, Doctor Strange, Thor: The Dark World, and Thor Ragnarok, so keep your eyes open for that. But to be honest, no movie in this franchise is safe from me. Not only that, I will also be making use of information found in the adjacent stories of the MCU, particularly the Agents of SHIELD series. Yes, that's how far I'm going with this. I said it's a wild ride, and I mean it. 
> 
> But don't worry if you've never seen the series. Unlike the MCU, I like to keep my plot well-explained. 
> 
> Also, do keep in mind that while this fic uses only MCU content, this is not meant to be an Avengers 4 prediction. It is... an alternative. As someone who has watched Ant-Man and the Wasp and has some idea of how Captain Marvel will unfold and is familiar with the comics, I have a pretty good guess of what will be necessary for Avengers 4 to occur. My problem with it is that, as MCU usually does, there's a lot of convenient information that will be brought up in those two movies, information that has never before been hinted as useful (and could be explained by foreshadowing) but suddenly it will be, or simply information that was completely unknown up until the point something was needed to fill in a gap in their storyline. Which, frankly, I find unnecessary, because we already have 10 years worth of story and information that could be more than enough to tie it all together in a logical, interesting way. 
> 
> So, what I'm doing is exactly that. Even though I love Carol very much and was extremely entertained by Ant-Man and the Wasp, I will not wait two years for Marvel to come up with some plot device to try to save themselves from this corner in which they backed themselves into. The word going around the grapevine tells me that A4 will occur only 4 years after the snap; That is absolutely unacceptable. No more of this waiting game. We’re fixing this, right here, right now. 
> 
> It’s kinda like a challenge for myself: what would happen if we had to fix Infinity War using only what was already given to us and nothing else? No extra help, no divine intervention? Our toolbox is the MCU and MCU only, up until Infinity War and no further - Let's see what happens. 
> 
> Or rather, the true question is: can I really use everything I can get my hands on as a tool and find a way to make it work as a fix-it, making sense of even the most ridiculous parts, and still be able to achieve a happy ending? The answer is yes. Yes, I can.

It tastes like ash inside his mouth.

It tastes like—

It tastes like _death._

 

( _He did it._ )

( _He **won.**_ )

The world is quiet.

The _universe_ is quiet. The silence is deafening in its cruelty, cutting as deep as the blade that went through his stomach, visceral and gut-wrenching pain, aching in a way he knows he can’t make it stop. There is only one sound, one constant, gentle whistle of a breeze that should not even exist, the low rumbling of a distant storm, something he can’t be sure if it’s truly there or it’s only a trick of his mind; A mockery of his senses, an illusion to somehow translate the mess within.

The world is quiet. Too quiet. 

It’s _over._

_They **lost.**_

Tony sits on the ground, curled up in a ball, uncaring of the presence behind him. It might as well not be there. He feels alone, he feels so utterly, completely alone, an empty body floating amidst nothingness, meaningless and small and _useless._ He has no strength anymore. He’s hurting, he’s exhausted, and he’s _tired_ , so, so tired – There is nothing he can do now.

It tastes like ash inside his mouth because he uses his hand to cover it, to try to hold back the sob that rises up his throat unbidden, raw and pure agony, needing to keep his lips shut or else he will break _. Hands that held Peter as the vanished._ Hands that are trembling and aching, hands who felt the warmth of the body he grasped just dissipate away, the weight and the presence blinking out of existence right before his eyes, leaving him _alone_ in this stranded land, in this vast, deep, silent planet. Forgotten and broken, left to waste away, just as he was.

The cold, cold feeling of a tear sliding down his face is the useless replacement for the _scream_ that dies inside his chest, voiceless before it can even attempt to escape, dying suffocated inside his aching body. All sounds die out, just like the world around him, just like his heart, and he cries in silence, just as he always did. As he learned, a long, long time ago.

For a second, he thinks he’s disappearing too, because it hurts _so much_.

The hitching of his breath makes his lungs hurt, and his eyes burn. His brain feels like it will explode from the pressure in his temples. Everything inside him is tight, constricting into itself, collapsing, an imminent demise.

He thinks he is dying.

Nothing else can hurt so bad. Nothing else would be so cruel.

He thinks he is dying—

But he is _not._

He is still alive.

( _The one who least deserves it._ )

He pushes his hand firmly against his lips, unable to stop the whimper that escapes him, and no matter how hard he closes his eyes, even when white spots explode under his eyelids and pain flares from inside his sockets, he cannot erase the vision of Pete’s eyes welling with tears and the jerking of his throat, swallowing back a sob, as his eyes rolled back and he turned into dust—

He promised himself he wouldn’t let anything happen to that kid.

He promised.

He feels himself sway side to side, like a child trying to console himself, the hopeless pleas of a broken man. He’s shaking so violently, like his body doesn’t know what to do with itself. Like it doesn’t know how to respond to such agony. He feels his mind _crumbling,_ unable to focus on anything for more than one second, like the madness that afflicted him after a nightmare – flashes of everything and nothing, all at once, images and sounds that couldn’t be explained by words, only by feelings like _sorrow_ , and _fear_ , and _hopelessness._

Tony wishes he didn’t feel anything at all.

He wishes he had vanished too. Vanished like the Guardians. Strange. _Peter._

The _universe._

( _Peter._ )

It’s his fault. _His fault._ He knows it is. He knew it would be, he always knew. He should’ve done something when he had the chance. He doesn’t know what, he can’t even think, he can only quiver and shake and wait until his body finally gives out. Until the pain in his chest becomes too much and his heart seizes painfully, beating too fast and too loud, too dangerous, too old, and it finally, finally finishes him off. Tony always knew it could happen. He always knew, even after so many procedures to lessen the odds, after so many years forcing himself to take care of his health to try and stop it – ever since the beginning, ever since Afghanistan, he knew there would be a day his heart wouldn’t take it. It was already scarred. It was already fated to failure.

He waits for it, he truly does. He almost _begs_ for it.

As he rocks himself side to side, tears burning in his eyes behind his lids, sobbing into his palm, he waits for the moment where the pain that bursts from his left arm to spread into his chest, expanding like an explosion, taking up his torso and limbs in a red-hot flare of pain, to then succumb to numbness.

It never comes. It would be only _mercy_ , but it never comes.

After all this time, Tony doesn’t even get the small reprieve of _dying_ when he wants to. When he most deserves it.

(He almost considers getting up and doing it himself.)

(Maybe ripping open the mesh he applied onto his stab wound, letting his body finish the job.)

(Left alone, it should hold for hours before the titanium levels started to verge on dangerous, poisoning his blood and slowly killing him.)

(Tony has never been a skilled biologist. It was meant for stalling, not for healing. It will kill him all the same, but he could make it faster.)

(But does it matter, now?)

Or maybe he should just stay here and let himself waste away. He doesn’t want to get up. His body won’t do more than flinch and tremble, muscles spasming with discharges of adrenaline, stiff and cramping, as he can’t do anything other than let tears spill and try uselessly to take a breath with his aching lungs – and maybe he should let it. It’s like moving will make it real. It’s like allowing himself to use his body will remind him he still has one, that the universe hasn’t stilled in its axis, although it does feel like it has. Moving will mean thinking, and thinking will mean acknowledging that this is _true._

That they lost.

That it’s over.

(But it’s true.)

There is no fixing it. This time, there is no solution. Tony can’t _fix this_ , he _can’t_ , because there is nothing to _reach for_ anymore. It all faded away. Thanos took _everything_ from him; As Tony always knew he would, as he always so _desperately_ tried to stop it. Tony has done so much, he has restlessly thought about this, about this threat, about this _final enemy_ , and he _knew he would never be ready_ – but _fuck_ , he had _tried._ He tried _so hard._ So hard it nearly killed him, more than once, so hard it made him lose almost everything. So hard it had gotten him nightmares that wouldn’t leave, so hard he became obsessed with being better, faster, _stronger_ , eyes so far into the future he almost let his present slip away.

What for?

What can Tony do, if he is just human, and his enemy is so much more?

(It’s not fair.)

(It’s never fair.)

(He is _cursed._ )

(It’s not fair.)

They failed. _He_ failed.

What else could he have done? Stronger armor? Better plan? What _else?_ Tony doesn’t know. He had already been going all out, after years and years of planning, of upgrading, of improving and _obsessing._ Tony knows he is smart, but he has his limits, and _fuck_ —

How could he have known Thanos would be so above those limits? _What could he have done_? Tony never leisured, never forgotten the threat, but somehow, it was still not enough, he should have done _more—_

(I should have _saved them._ )

( _All of them._ )

Useless, ridiculous human. Stupid, naïve Tony.

(I’m no hero.)

(I _lost._ )

One drop of blood. That was all he could take. He managed one mere, measly drop of blood, after all he has done. His best armor, his finest work, _powerless_ before his greatest enemy.

Tony should have done more.

It’s _bullshit_ that he’s still alive. It’s— It’s just plain mockery, it’s a _travesty_ , and he does not deserve it. He doesn’t _want it._ He doesn’t want to be the only one left after everything he’s ever loved is gone. God, that is his _biggest fear._ Please, let it not be true, he won’t stand it, he should’ve died when Thanos shoved his own blade into his stomach—

And he would’ve been dead by then. But then, Strange gave up the Time Stone for him.

(He shouldn’t have.)

Goddamn _idiot._ That— That stupid, brainless, complete and utter _idiot!_ Why? _Why_ would he do it? They could have fought. They still had a chance. Why would he give up one of the most powerful objects in the universe to save _Tony?_ Had he let Tony go to waste, has he _used_ the damn thing to go back and try to gain some advantage over Thanos— _no_ , he gave it over in exchange for _Tony’s life._

(He’s not worth it.)

Of all things he could have bargained for—

(It’s not worth it.)

Why _Tony?_

(Why is it always Tony?)

(Let him rest.)

(God, please.)

(Let it be _over._ )

(He can’t take this anymore.)

Strange had given up the _Time Stone_ for him. And he faded away looking Tony in the eye as if he’d made the _right choice,_ as if he hadn’t just committed the biggest mistake of his life, and he said—

 _We’re in the end game now_ , he said.

End game? No, it fucking isn’t.

It isn’t end game. It’s just an _end._

His body lurches forward, reacting violently to his completely jumbled emotions, and he feels he’s going to vomit for a second, but there is nothing inside him to be expelled. He is hollow. His skin feels like it doesn’t fit, his arm hurts, _it hurts so bad_ , it’s _shaking_ and Tony still can feel the lingering warmth between his fingers, the last memory he has fading away, going cold with each passing second, disappearing—

They did not deserve it. God, none of them had deserved it. Pete should’ve stayed _home_ , safe and protected, Tony should’ve never allowed this, and now the kid is _gone—_

A sob does escape his mouth at this point.

He presses his hand harder against his lips.

It tastes like death still.

The flavor will never leave his tongue now.

 

How do you survive after this?

After the closest thing you can feel to death, without actually dying?

(The answer is)

(You _don’t_.)

 

He doesn’t know how long he stays like this.

It could be minutes. It could be hours. Time doesn’t really matter anymore, once the enemy has taken it all.

He can hear the presence of another being close by, by a soft, light breathing, and the sound of crinkly fabric and scratches of sand under boots. That blue thing, he recalls, the one who looked half alien and half robot, the one who came from nowhere and attacked Thanos, who asked for _Gamora._  

 _It might be one of the Guardians_ , he distantly remembers. It’s like the thought comes from very far away, from somewhere other than inside his mind, like a voice whispering very close to his ear, with no breath and no sound.

_They talked to Quill._

_They fought Thanos._

_They were also left behind._

Tony wonders if this is the irony the universe has in store for him. The last of the Avengers, standing with the last of the Guardians, both of them trapped in a deserted planet, to rot away slowly.

He hopes that’s not it.

If it were up to him, he’d at least die _alone._

(No, don’t.)

(I don’t want to be alone.)

The blue being shifts and grunts, as if they’re getting up from a sitting position, after God knows how long since they both fell to the ground and just stayed there. Tony wonders, distantly, if they can cry. If they heard him, as he did. Even if it’s stupid, even if it’s of no consequence now, Tony feels his neck burn with embarrassment, with the old, familiar shame of being caught vulnerable, especially by a complete stranger as this Guardian.

The Guardian stands, then walks around aimlessly, their footsteps incredibly light and incredibly loud at the same time, in Tony’s overwhelmed mind.

“We have to leave.” The being says, quiet and firm, a tone that is not unkind, but is also not gentle. A sound of reluctance. A sound of bitter defeat. “We can’t stay here.”

Tony doesn’t answer. If he opens his mouth, he will sob. He can only shake his head, turning his face to the left so the creature won’t be able to see his red, swollen face, tear tracks along his cheeks and blood staining his lips, mixing iron and ash at the back of his tongue, the flavor of cruel, cruel _irony._

“We can’t stay.” The being insists, a little more aggressively, when Tony doesn’t respond. “This is a hostile planet. The atmosphere will kill us both if we stay here too long.”

Possibly. Tony doesn’t really care. The part of his mind that never shuts down, the hyperactive, science-oriented one, does wonder how they’ve been able to stay here, with no oxygen support, for as long as they have.

(Maybe there is oxygen.)

(There is. The flamethrower worked. No flame if there is no oxygen.)

(Elevated levels of carbon monoxide due to explosions, sulfur and iron, possibly nitrogen.)

(How many hours of oxygen are there left? He can’t calculate. He doesn’t know anything about this planet to be able to make an assumption.)

(It would mean a slow death.)

(Like falling asleep.)

“We have nowhere to go.” Tony argues, weakly, removing the hand on his mouth only to press it against his face, blocking his eyes, the light too much on his sensitive irises. The weight of his own words catches up to him and he rocks back and forth again, unconsciously, his other hand instinctively laying itself over his Arc Reactor – his _nanite compartment, dammit_ –, his _heart_ , as if he could press away the pain that flares inside. “We’re trapped here. It’s over. He won. We’re done.”

“We’re still alive.” The being says, injecting strength into their voice. “I would like to keep it that way.”

 _Oh, are we?_ , the dark corners of Tony’s mind whisper. _Sure doesn’t feel like it._

The being mustn’t feel – or care – about Tony’s closed-off stance, or his face turned away, or the slouch in his posture, for it gets even closer and steps around him, so they can stand in his line of vision, even as they look over him towards the wreckage long meters ahead, to the remains of the ship of the alien who tried to kidnap Strange.

“Is there a ship we can use?” They ask, probably assessing, just as Tony has, that the ship is beyond salvation, even for him.

“It’s completely broken.” Tony points out, unable to sound mocking as he wishes he could. It simply comes out flat and emotionless, helpless.

“Not completely.” The being contradicts but doesn’t press, not actually trying to offer a solution, just being contrary to his words. Tony gets the impression that much like Quill, this one also likes to disagree just for the sake of disagreeing. “You can work with machines. You fly a metal suit of armor.”

He wants to be rude and insult them in some way, but he can’t bring himself to do it. What would be the point? There is no point anymore. And it’s not like it isn’t true. The suit is right there – broken, distorted, scraps of metal and junk spread across the soil, the dirt and debris, and trapped around him like the universe’s most cruel of cages. The Guardian has seen him fight also, has seen the armor mold itself around Tony and respond to his commands, the symbiotic relationship between them, and Tony knows they are smart enough to know that _Tony_ is the one who made it so.

Tony nods, but doesn’t supply any more information. Not because he’s wary. He just… He doesn’t feel like talking.

(Doesn’t feel like nothing at all.)

“The idiot, Quill.” The blue being reminds him, objectively, even when Tony doesn’t say a word. “He had a ship. It’s still around. We can use it to get out of here.”

“And where would we go?” Tony asks, exasperated, so utterly tired from being prodded and being exposed and being _hurt_ that he unthinkingly raises his eyes, and his gaze locks with the blue being’s, and doesn’t let go. “What can we possibly do?”

“I don’t know.” The Guardian admits, a bit mournfully. “Somewhere else. Not here. That’s all that matters.”

So the Guardian has no place to go anymore.

But neither does he, isn’t that right? Neither does he.

(No, no.)

_No._

Pepper. Happy. Rhodey. May. Fury. Hill. _The Avengers._

There might still be some people left.

(There might not be. He might be truly alone this time.)

(Isn’t that how it goes?)

(They all die.)

( _You don’t_.)

“There might be—” Tony chokes, body flinching in sharp pain when he mindlessly tries to twist himself so he can look at his companion, the wound in his abdomen stretching painfully and probably starting to bleed again in his hasty movement. “On Earth. I need to— I need to go back. I need to know who’s left. I need to know.”

The being stares at him for a long, long time, before they give him the tiniest of nods, black eyes deep and endless, and locked on Tony’s without flinching. “Then get on the ship. We can go together.”

(Get on the ship.)

(Get up.)

(Get on the ship.)

Simple commands. Step by step. He can do that.

He knows how to do this. It’s not the first time Tony has had to tunnel his vision to make sure he wouldn’t freeze, it’s not the first time his brain betrays him and he has to make do with only the shell of what’s left behind, with only the leftovers… the _scraps_ , of what he thought he had. Get up. Get on the ship. He thinks of no more than just this, just those two easy steps, and whatever might come next is a problem he won’t think about right now.

(But if they—)

_No._

Stop.

Not right now.

Right now, he needs to get up, and get on the ship.

He struggles to find strength back on his legs, his muscles cramping and his knees painfully stiff, and his entire abdomen throbbing with a dull, low ache,  something that makes him feel oddly bloated, like he is expanding from the inside out until he bursts. He’s not really sure what’s happening to him anymore. Is he still bleeding inside? Maybe he is. It doesn’t feel like it, but how would he know?

The mesh is programmed to work similar to the armor, molding itself into his anatomical form both inside and out, using the chips he implanted on himself as guidelines – but mostly was programmed with _external use_ in mind. Granted, the mesh wasn’t his idea, it was Dr. Cho’s – but Tony had to tweak with it a little bit, or else it wouldn’t work with the nanotech he used for the armor. He’s not sure if it responds the way he wanted to. He never got the chance to test it. And if the particles of the mesh are responsive as his armor is, and his armor is defective, how sure can Tony be that the mesh is in working condition?

The truth is, he can’t.

So he might be bleeding.

He might be dying.

Should he even bother?

(Get up.)

( _Get on the ship._ )

(Don’t think about it.)

(Just do it.)

He gets up with an immeasurable amount of difficulty, every joint protesting, every muscle ardently aching, and he takes the pain as both a focal point and a punishment, not letting himself stray from being extremely conscious of it, because he needs something – anything – to think about that is not just the _silence_ _,_ but also because he _deserves it._

He isn’t really expecting it, but he is so exhausted he can’t even flinch when the Guardian steps forward and holds him by the elbow, surprisingly strong by a grip so unsteady, and helps him find his balance so he can stand. But Tony’s body—

His body is no longer cooperating, too weary and too confused by the shock and overwhelming strain, coordination compromised and wounds all over, and his knees try to give in as soon as he puts too much weight on them, gravity pulling him down fast, and he isn’t quick enough to steady himself on his own.

The Guardian immediately presses close to him and knocks their shoulder with his, using their body as a wall for Tony to support against, letting out a pained noise and a hard flinch when they collide – but the support is enough so Tony won’t fall straight into the rocks below if he tries to move. Tony thinks he might’ve hurt the Guardian somehow, even if his shoulder is the one that’s going to bloom in a deep purple bruise in a few hours if the sharp sting of a metal object hitting his deltoid is any indication, but he can’t manage to do anything but sigh in a small, shaky breath, even if only slightly relieved that the support allows him not to put his entire weight on his legs, that are starting to feel like jelly more and more, with every moment it passes.

He shudders involuntarily, closing his eyes for the briefest of seconds, taking in a breath and forcing himself to stay grounded, just for a few seconds more, to take it all in.

He forces himself to remember this.

( _Remember this._ )

The feeling of his body giving out on him. The pain in his abdomen. The ache in his chest. The fading warmth between his fingertips. The taste of death at the back of his tongue.

The realization that this is _real._

(Remember this, as you remember Afghanistan.)

(As you remember the wormhole.)

(Ultron.)

(Siberia.)

(Remember this.)

Because even when Tony has nothing else, he has his nightmares, he has his demons, he has the voice at the back of his head, the one who still sounds like _Yinsen_ , after all these years, the one who won’t let him give up no matter what. So Tony remembers. Not only because the world will not allow him to forget, but because he has to, because it is his duty, it’s his burden to carry, because it’s the weight of his choices and the shortcomings of his actions that led him to this.

He remembers.

Because Tony has to use whatever excuse he can find if he wants to keep going.

Even if that excuse is fueled by hate and rage and sorrow, and it makes him want to hurt himself a little more.

“Alright.” Tony groans, ignoring the way his arm trembles as he brings it to rest on his companion’s shoulder, taking in a breath to steel himself for whatever the hell it is to follow. “To the ship we go.”

In unsteady steps, he and the Guardian wobble towards Quill’s ship, away from sight, relocated to a place where Thanos couldn’t see it when he arrived. The way to it seems even longer now, not by his slow, dragging steps, but for the empty spaces by his side, by the lack of a presence that should be there, and Tony can _feel_ the way _death_ follows him around as he moves, making him feel twitchy and paranoid, urging him to look over his shoulder even when he knows he won’t find anything there.

He has no idea what makes him say what he says next – maybe he can’t stand the silence, maybe he is afraid of his own mind and what he’ll find there, maybe… Maybe he’s afraid he is _alone_ –, but he ends up opening his mouth and speaking, even when he’s struggling a little to breathe with the wound on his belly.

“My name is Tony. Tony Stark.” Tony offers demurely, voice breaking when it travels through his scratched throat, parched mouth and blood-stained teeth. Despite all of that, when he looks at his companion, to the blue skin of the hands that are both soft and strong at his sides, to the pitch-black eyes and the mouth twisted on a frown, he hopes it comes off gentle, even if just a little bit, because he feels like he owes this to the Guardian.

Tony is—

He is _craving_ connection.

He won’t beg for gentleness himself. He never does, or he will never _admit_ that he does, because he knows better than to do so. He knows any pleas he might have will fall onto deaf ears. He has learned this ten years ago. And just as he did ten years ago, he will cling to the only presence he has by his side, he will keep himself grounded on the touch and on the words, even as the darkness of a cave or the vast quietness of space try to suffocate him, because he needs to remind himself that he is not alone. That although the body beside him is not human, it is living and breathing, it is an ally, and it is _companionship_ , and Tony couldn’t ask for anything else right now.

He won’t beg for gentleness, not with his words.

But habit is hard to break. And Tony has always, _always_ feared being alone.

“I know.” The being says lowly, after a brief pause. “I’m Nebula.”

“One of the Guardians?” Tony inquires, as kindly as he can, even as he lets out a pained grunt when an uneasy step makes him wobble and it stings in his stomach, and _Nebula_ steadies him with a stronger grip at his elbow and a firm hand to his back.

Nebula looks at the rubble behind them for a moment, thoughtful and nostalgic, and then whispers, “Gamora’s sister.”

_Gamora._

(Where is Gamora!?)

_Quill’s girl._

_Nebula’s sister._

“I’m sorry.” The words stumble out of Tony’s mouth, awkward and uncertain, but sincere – because he has no idea who this Gamora is, but he thinks she was probably someone to respect, if half the universe seems to be in a tirade to find her… or, he guesses, _avenge_ her. “She probably—”, and then he stops.

Because what else can he say?

Nebula looks at him for a second, eyes just as mysterious and unknown as the stretch of darkness above them, around them, this endless, bottomless universe, that Tony has dreamt for _years_ that would swallow him whole, and now it finally _has—_

And Tony shudders with the strength he can see in them, with the force Nebula seems to be able to carry even when she has apparently lost it all, a force not even the entire universe could contain.

“I’ll make him pay.” Nebula growls, and Tony, for a wild, thoughtless second, _believes her_. “Even if it’s the last thing I’ll do.”

 

The ship is apparently named Benatar. Tony finds that out when he manages to get inside the navigation system — which is weird and functions in a type of algorithm he has never seen before, something that seems to include a ternary logic instead of a binary one — and the main screen greets him with a bunch of information his overworked brain barely has enough strength to decipher. As far as functionality goes, Tony has _no idea_ what this ship can do besides fly and shoot stuff, apparently, because he can’t recognize the symbols that make up its main structure, but for now, it is enough. From what he can guess from the graphs on the screen, there is enough fuel – Energy? Not exactly fuel, but not electric force either. Something else, something that lodges itself at the back of his brain for later inspection, even when Tony tells himself he will refuse to think about this day for a very, very long time – to last for a long trip, hopefully long enough until they can reach Earth.

But he can’t be sure.

(Does it matter?)

He can only hope it’s enough.

None of this is Tony’s usual playfield; after all, aircraft has always been much more up Rhodey’s alley than Tony’s – and _don’t go there_ , Tony can’t think too much about that, he doesn’t want to think about the ugly, terrible possibilities of entertaining the thought of Rhodey for too long –, but by now, after Iron Man, he knows more than enough to make some very spot-on educated guesses. His knowledge of alien aircraft, however, is very limited, coming from observation of the Chitauri pods back in New York and the Flying Donut merely a few hours ago – and space travel has _never_ been Tony’s favorite topic, so there is a lot of room for mistakes.

And he’ll be damned if this is not all his anxiety needs to pop its head over his shoulder, waiting, patient, _hungry._ Because Tony’s mistakes are never small. Tony’s mistakes are ever easy to fix.

He can’t fail at this.

He can’t fail anymore.

A lot of it it’s just guessing work, but once he recognizes a pattern of commands, a backlog including last known flight paths, he follows it back home to the main commands registered and finds a system of coordinates. It’s like the world’s most unnecessarily complicated GPS. There are some specific locations, recurring numbers showing up sometimes more than four times across the entire log, but unfortunately, Tony doesn’t know what any of them mean. He has no idea where they lead to.

“Do you know what those mean?” Tony croaks weakly, looking over his shoulder to look at the looming presence with him on the ship.

Nebula, who has been standing silently behind him, takes a few steps forward and looks at the panel thoughtfully for a few seconds, posture taut and expression closed off.

“I recognize some of it.” She admits. “But none of them is Terra.”

(Of course. Why would it be?)

“What should we follow?” Tony inquires, hoping Nebula, being the one who actually lived in space, would know something useful.

“None of it. I don’t think it’s worth it. Thanos has probably wiped out two of those locations already.” She explains, pointing to two recurring coordinates, making Tony feel more hopeless by the second.

“So what do we do?”

“We need something the ship can trace back to your planet.” She flicks her gaze at him, sharply, and Tony feels as she can see right _through_ him, past armor, skin, flesh and all. “Your armor. Can you get the coordinates to Terra from it?”

“I don’t know.” Tony admits. He’s never had to, before. From a remote location with barely any power? Yes. From outer space? _Never._ “Can you?”

“It traveled all the way here with you.” Nebula points out. “It made the trajectory. We get trace it back using the mapping.”

The idea makes something unpleasant squirm inside Tony’s chest, the years-old, deep-seated instinct of protecting his heart from anything that might get too close, especially when that thing is of alien nature. “How?”

“Maw’s ship might have the coordinates, but the system must be working for me to be able to access it, and the ship is destroyed. So we need to access your armor using the ship’s tracking and follow the path back to where you came from.”

“Okay.” Tony exhales, overwhelmed, but no less confused. He asks again, “And how do we do that?”

“Put on the armor.”

(Step one, failed.)

“I kind of... can’t do that.”

Nebula frowns, which looks weird, because she has no eyebrows, but it still looks like one of the deepest scowls Tony has ever seen. “You could just fine a few hours ago.”

(Hours.)

( _It’s been hours._ )

Tony resists the childish impulse to shake his head, as if that would help him clear his thoughts any better, even when his thoughts will scatter all over the place anyway.

“I retracted it, but it moved awkwardly.” Tony confesses. “It froze when the blade went through it. It shouldn’t have done that. It was also trying to rearrange itself because it was losing particles too fast and I had to keep shifting it so it wouldn’t leave me exposed. It’s toast. If I try to put it on, the particles inside me might shift and—”

“Rip you open.”

Tony goes eerily quiet for a dark, tense moment. “Yeah.”

Nebula keeps staring at him, silently, and the feeling of pure _dread_ that floods Tony’s insides is as primitive as the sound he makes when he exhales, something that’s so instinctive he can’t even try to stop it before it has already left his lips, low and afraid, anguished enough to alert her of his distress. He knows she is analyzing him. He knows that of all people who have ever seen the armor, Nebula is probably the one who could come close to figuring out how it works, simply because of what she _is._

But at the same time, it worries him. And not for any logical reason, either.

(Half machine.)

If there’s anyone in this universe Tony could probably trust with this, it would be the android, wouldn’t it?

(But she—)

But she is half metal. Literally. Is it really translatable? Is Tony—

Should he really do this?

(I am not the armor. I’m not, I’m not.)

“Does it hurt you?” She asks in a quiet, almost breathless tone of voice, something that sounds almost _regretful_ , like she fears the answer Tony might give. “If we try to connect your armor to the ship?”

Tony answers shakily, “It shouldn’t.”

Nebula looks him up and down, quickly, eyes still so hard and unwavering, even when her voice is softer. “If it’s not attached to you, you can take it off, can’t you?”

“I can, but I don’t know what will happen to the internal structure.” Tony admits, and he has to cough to ease the sudden tightness in his throat, the words that get half stuck in his esophagus when he forces them out. “Right now, it’s kind of holding my stomach together. If I remove it, the particles of the mesh recede. I’ll start bleeding again.”

Nebula makes a thoughtful pause. “What is it powered by?”

( _My heart._ )

“Nanine compartment.” Tony taps at the triangle-shaped compartment on his chest, and the glass makes a small _clink, clink_ sound, a dangerous indicator that something is not as firmly attached as it should be.

“Self-sustainable?” Nebula asks, unsurprisingly sharp, and Tony tries very hard not to think about how half her body is made of metal, and she is probably just as familiar with inner workings of mechanic body parts as he is. Maybe more. Even more than that, he tries not to think what it means, that she is so casual about mentioning removing a part of it, as if she knows exactly what she’s asking of Tony, _intimately_ , personally.

“Yeah.”

“We can make it lock it onto you.” Nebula wonders aloud a second option. “We connect it to the ship, redirect the pulses from the turbines to your armor, and shock it into working again. The extra energy will lock it in place. It won’t move.”

It sounds like a good enough plan, except—

(It would _kill me_.)

(My heart can’t take shocks.)

For some reason, Tony doesn’t warn her to that fact. His mouth opens, gaping like a fish, but no sound actually comes out.

(But I have to.)

She can also see the way he hesitates even harder at the suggestion, his shoulders tense and mouth tightly closed, and although he can’t see himself, the moment the flash of a dark, dark tub and the phantom spasm his body gives, the memory of a bright, stinging shock, blooming from his chest into his limbs, the discharge of a car battery lodged in a place it shouldn’t be.

“Is it part of you?” Nebula whispers, eyes locked on the blue hue of Tony’s nanite compartment, the bright light reflecting on her skin in a bright, almost neon shade. Ironically, the word that comes to Tony’s mind is _otherworldly._ “Do you feel it?”

Tony gulps around nothing, mouth dry and knees unstable, and he says, “A little.”

She looks at him with stormy eyes—

(Half machine.)

(Does she know?)

(Does she know how it feels?)

(Does she—)

“But if we adjust the charge—” Tony begins.

“How much?” She presses.

She’s not asking about the charge. Tony knows. The way her eyes lock onto his form, scanning and assessing, taking in every detail the same way he does when he finds a piece of tech he can’t comprehend, Nebula is trying to _reverse engineer_ him in her head, trying to figure out exactly _how much of Tony is the armor_ , and how much of Tony is _Tony_.

After a heartbeat, Tony raises one hand, palm up, pulling back his tracksuit so he can expose the inside of his forearm to Nebula to inspect, despite the fact that the marks have long faded away, many, many months ago. But he can still feel them, if he shifts it just right. Sometimes, he does. To remind himself he’s got the armor with him. That he isn’t _helpless_ , not technically.

“It’s in my body.” He explains, running his fingers along the line of his veins, tapping lightly at a soft spot of flesh right above his wrist. “It’s detachable, but it only works because it's inside me. I have tracking chips and motion sensors adapted to my anatomy and biological markings. I can remove it, but I can’t be sure the shock won’t cause an explosive feedback and fry the chips inside me. And my heart is not good. Electric discharge might make it stutter and stop.”

Nebula makes a long, heavy pause, considering Tony’s words, and Tony is so desperate to get out of here, get out of this place, that he almost tells her to do it anyway, despite the risk of pushing him into cardiac arrest. He can almost hear the cogs in Nebula’s brain turning – and isn’t that the most ironic expression right now? –, furiously, and Tony, for a second, is afraid that she’ll ask him to remove them, every single one, so they can use his Arc—

His _nanite compartment_ , to attach it to the ship and find the coordinates anyway.

But she surprises him. Instead, she comes up with another option.

“We can connect you to the command board.” She offers, and Tony is horrified to realize she sounds like she’s at the end of her rope, like this is the very last option she can give him, and it’s either _this_ or nothing else. “And I’ll have to work with it attached to you. It’ll probably drain the energy entirely, slowly. It’ll stop working gradually. We might make it before you bleed out.”

 _Might_. That’s… not good.

“How long do you think it should take us to reach Earth?” Tony breathes.

“I don’t know.” Nebula admits. “I don’t know exactly where it is, but using the energy that’s left in the ship and whatever extra energy we should take out of you, two jumps should be enough.”

Tony has no idea what kind of measure is _jumps_ , but it sounds like _bad news._

“And that’s a long time?” He presses.

“Not long, but exhausting.” Nebula gravely explains. “Requires a lot of energy.”

Which means that it’ll drain Tony’s energy faster, which will cause the armor to fail faster, and make the mesh particles recede faster. And it’ll kill him. But if they go too slow, the residual titanium levels will start to poison him from the inside out, and it’ll kill him, or he might simply bleed out anyway.

“So… We have to be fast, but not too fast, or else I die all the same. Fun.” Tony goes for a joking tone, and he very nearly succeeds, but he injects too much exasperation into it, at it makes him sound hysterical.  “Can we do that? A happy middle ground?”

Nebula throws him a look like she wants to strangle him, nevermind they have just gone three different plans just so they can avoid Tony dying too soon. “Why is your armor so lethal to your body? It’s supposed to be a part of you.”

( _I’m not the armor—_ )

(Because it’s all I do.)

( _Stop it._ )

“I wasn’t planning on getting stabbed.” Tony exasperatedly exclaims, not really answering the question.

Nebula completely ignores him, pulling him up by his bicep and sitting him down on the bench behind the pilot’s chair, to then pull out a bunch of cables from under the control panel and bring them all closer to Tony, as if she’s planning to plug him in like a damn USB cord or something, impatient.

“No, no.” Tony stops her with frantic gestures, stealing the cables from her hand, hiding them behind himself. “I’ll do that. You go to the chair and get ready to get the coordinates. No one messes with my nanite compartment besides me.”

Nebula mutters something that sounds awfully like _suit yourself_ – which is _funny_ , but also _uncalled for –_ and Tony frowns disapprovingly at her despite the fact that she turns her back at him, heading to the chair impassively, not even trying to peek at Tony as she does so.

Tony stares at the back of her head for a few seconds, not exactly suspicious; But still, instinctively wary, and only when she doesn’t turn back at all Tony feels comfortable enough to bring his hand around the casing of the compartment and pressing into the safety locks, popping the front open and exposing the inner workings of it so he can work on connecting all the cables correctly himself, trying not to damage it further on the process.

His hands are far too big for such delicate work, however. Thoughtlessly, he leans forward and grabs a toolbox from the side of the panel, pretending he doesn’t wince when the skin over his ribs pulls taut and the edges of his stab wound when he does, swallowing his whine back down to avoid alerting Nebula and making her turn around.  It’s not very effective, because he still grunts when he shifts back into a seated position, but Nebula doesn’t turn around anyway, and Tony feels a rush of something that is far too close to _gratitude_ run through him; And he stomps it down quickly, not allowing himself to dwell on it for too long.

It’s ridiculous, in a way that is comforting and mocking at the same time, the way that his trembling hands immediately turn steady when he closes his fingers around a tool. Tony takes in a deep breath before he can start working, just as he always does when he needs to mess with the Reactor – the _nanite compartment_ , damn it, is that so hard to remember? – while it’s still attached to him. It makes him nervous, it _always_ does, but by now, Tony has learned to work through it anyway. It was a necessity. He has no time to feel uncomfortable, to think about caves and explosions and phantom presences by his shoulder, when his heart literally depended on it for over six years.

It’s meticulous work. With Tony, everything is.

For some time, he allows himself to lose focus to the detailed work beneath his fingertips, to the familiar motions of connecting and rearranging, of running calculations, and he can pretend everything is fine. No, not fine, but maybe, it’s _fixable._ Like his nanite compartment. Maybe, if Tony tries a little harder, if he pushes himself a little further, he can find a way out of this, the same way he found a way out of that cave ten years ago.

(How?)

(How will he do that?)

(How much _more_ can he give?)

He doesn’t know.

(He lost the _kid._ )

(God, _fuck—_ )

(He lost _everything—_ )

But he has to _try._

He has to try, he tells himself as he tweaks with tools and wires, the only things that can make his mind calm down these days. He has to try, he tells himself as takes apart and builds back up the same object, over and over and over again, restless in his quest for improvement, for progress, for a solution. He has to try, he tells himself, as he tinkers with his metaphorical heart one more time, rearranging it and forcing it back together, to hold on for one more day, one more time, just for a little while longer.

He makes it work. After all, he has done more with much less in the past.

But before he can attach the cable and literally connect himself to an unknown ship, something makes him stop – a question that flickers in his mind, the old, gravelly voice that’s always at the back of Tony’s head, always whispering things to him, and he freezes millimeters away of possibly making another irreparable mistake.

“If you can access the travel path from the command panel”, Tony hesitantly inquires, knowing Nebula is paying attention even though she hasn’t turned around ever since she sat at the pilot’s chair. “What else can you access?”

“Nothing else that I care about.” Nebula smoothly responds, and then says nothing else.

(Don’t trust her.)

But Tony has to—

(Don’t give the secrets of your armor to the alien android, are you _an idiot—_ )

But—

(Remember _Ultron_.)

(Do you want to remember this as you remember Ultron?)

(How many more deaths do you want to cause—)

He has to _try._

How else will he get out of here? He has no other choice.

He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to.

But he has to.

“Ok.” Tony braces himself, pretending he can’t hear the tiny whistle his nostrils give when he takes in a deep, careful breath, willing his hands to remain steady for this. For this decision. For this… whatever the hell this is. “Let’s see if it works.”

Tony attaches the cable, and hopes this entire thing doesn’t blow up in his face.

For a second, nothing happens. He looks down at his nanite compartment, flabbergasted, relieved, _disappointed_ , _what the hell—_

And then it flickers in a burst of light, something quick and energized that Tony feels all the way down to the marrow of his bones, a pulse of energy running through every single spot of his body where a tracking chip of the suit is hidden underneath his skin – oh God, will it fry it all? –, the compartment whirs and glows – it’ll _shock him_ , fuck, fuck, will it shock him, he’ll _die_ –, and, suddenly, it settles, steady and calm, making a low hum constantly resonate against Tony’s chest.

The air gets stuck in Tony’s lungs, his entire body dead still and stone cold, suspended in time, like the second before a bomb explodes—

“Got it.” Nebula calls, startling him – and _oh, thank fuck, yes, finally_ , the panels in front of her light up with all kinds of info, star maps, and coordinates, and all Tony can think is _we can leave, I didn’t die, oh God, we can leave, we can go **home**.         _

“Good.” Tony nods, pretending he can’t hear how winded he sounds, that he almost went completely insane and drove himself into a panic attack just because of that scare. “Can’t wait to leave this place. Do we get to watch a movie during the flight? Or it’s not available to economic class?”

“It won’t take long.” Nebula assures, also blatantly ignoring his deflection, all business and no-nonsense as she types in instructions on the command board, fast as lightning, giving him an odd feeling of déjà vu, of _himself_ , lost in an hours-long binge in his workshop, lost to numbers and equations, shutting all emotions out. “You’ll live.”

( _Might._ )

 _Might live,_ he reminds himself.

But beggars can’t be choosers, he supposes. Not much he can do now, except sit here, with his chest attached to the ship like he’s a damned power bank or something, and hope for the best.

They set the route to the general direction of the Earth, somewhere around the place Squidward's ship had taken impulse and flown away, because that’s as far as the signal of the armor can lead them to – And he thinks about how fucked up that is, that he is so far away that he has left his planet far enough that he doesn’t know how to get back to it. It’s terrifying, how far away from home he is, lost amidst stars that are too quiet, the endless, terrifying darkness, the very same Tony sometimes still dreams about when he tries to sleep.

(Don’t think about it.)

(Just _don’t_.)

Nebula checks his commands and the weird, jumbled map the screen presents them, and tells him it’s good enough for now and lets the ship be. The journey will take a while, she says.

That means Tony has plenty of time alone with his thoughts, which is the last thing he wants right now.

(Don’t think about it.)

( _But the kid—_ )

(Don’t.)

Nebula gets up from the chair and moves to the side, the panel illuminating her from behind like a holy image, a halo of bursting colors and shifting brightness, a display that is almost mockingly beautiful for a scene so sad. Tony watches her move curiously, forcing himself to focus on her movement and not on the shadows that lurk behind his eyes, burning in his retinas, the memories that will fuel his nightmares forever, if he ever gets to sleep again.

He notices she’s holding her arm by her elbow, not just placing a gentle hand on it but actually _holding_ it, lifting it a bit, as if she’s trying to keep it from falling and completely detaching from her shoulder. It’s the shoulder Tony knocked into when he wobbled and nearly fell when he tried to get up, he realizes. Shit, he probably detached something of hers because of the impact. Just like the rest for her, it looks made of half flesh, half metal, so her joints are probably mechanic too—

And for a second, he wonders how deep it goes, the metal, if the steel in her spine is metaphorical or literal, and if that has any bearing in the way she holds herself together even though, like Tony, her life seems to have pretty much been completely wiped away with a snap of Thanos’ fingers.

He wonders if it would even make a difference. Probably not. The metal Tony carries in his veins is completely artificial, residues of procedures and purposefully injected nanoparticles to keep the suit properly attached, tricks he developed to steel himself for things stronger than him, to make him feel a little less useless than he truly is. Nebula though – Nebula is all metal, inside and out. Spine, veins and body, mind and _will_ , everything Tony tried to build himself into and never quite managed it.

Is it weird, that he feels oddly… connected to her, in that manner? He doesn’t really know her. Tony knows that his feelings are all jumbled and messed up right now, and they probably will never be alright again, and he _knows_ about _bonding in captivity,_ far too much, even though this is not really captivity—

( _Stop it._ )

But – But Tony could have easily _been_ Nebula. Still could. How ironic is that, him being trapped with a being that is half-made of metal, when Tony, even today, when he tries to take his time and step away from his work-binges more often and care more about real people, about Pepper, about the kid…

(Don’t.)

(Don’t think about the kid. Don’t think about Pepper either. Not yet.)

Tony is still very much dedicated to his work as Iron Man and to the armor. More than Pepper would like. More than it’s healthy, probably. He didn’t… He didn’t really need the nanite compartment, biologically speaking. But he did it anyway. Because Tony needed to be _ready_ , even if he’ll never truly be, and he needs to have metal in him to keep himself together or else he always, _always_ feels exposed.

How long, until Tony turns himself into something like Nebula?

Can he stop it from happening? Now? After _this?_

Can he really let go of the guilt and pretend everything is fine, that he can’t fight anymore, and let it go?

(Do you even want to?)

He exhales shakily, biting the inside of his cheek, and looks back at Nebula, unable to stop himself.

Tony knows he’s probably not being as discreet as he should with his staring, but he doesn’t really care, even if he’s being intense enough that it makes Nebula raise her gaze and look at him uncomfortably, her entire face scrunched up.

“What?” Nebula growls, voice rough and scratchy, but her eyes are tired and her complexion almost sickly, so weird, so new, Tony has never seen a machine like her before—

“Want me to take a look at that arm?” Tony easily suggests, the thought not even making itself clear in his head before he’s blurting it out.

“Worry about your own wound.” Nebula prickly responds.

“There’s not much I can do.” Tony admits, and he sounds _pathetic_. Small and fragile, and he _hates it_. “I don’t have anything else to close the cut. I might still be bleeding inside.”

 _That_ makes Nebula’s eyes gleam dangerously, like she is a dog who is seconds away from trying to bite him. “Then stop moving. You might die.”

( _Who cares at this point?_ )

Nebula cares, apparently. Maybe. To some extent.

But what is Tony Stark next to the trillions who have just passed? Who is he, a mere speck of nothingness in the middle of space, empty inside, with no strength and no purpose anymore? He could’ve gone with the others, turned into dust, and what difference would that make? None. Tony might die inside this spaceship, bleeding out slowly, long before they even reach Earth, much less reach _help_.

(Who knows?)

(Who _cares._ )

He doesn’t find it despairing. He doesn’t find it comforting.

He doesn’t feel anything but dread.

“As I said.” Tony gives a light shrug, pressing his lips into a hard line for a brief second. It makes his jaw tighten, and all his gums hurt when he does so, all the way up to the insides of his skull. “Not much I can do. But I can fix that arm.”

Nebula scowls, a little less aggressively than Tony would expect, but it’s still a scowl. “And leave me alone to fly this ship to Terra?”

“Would you rather do it with one hand or two?” Tony arches up his brows, cockily.

“You won’t die.” Nebula says after a huff, and it sounds like an order. “I’m not flying this ship alone.”

Tony almost wants to tell her she might not have a choice.

( _You can do it._ )

( _You’re made of iron._ )

( _More than I am_.)

Instead, he reaches again for the toolbox, pulling it to his lap, and he scoots over to the right to leave more space free on the bench beside him.

“Get over here, C-3PO.” He calls, beckoning her closer with a lazy gesture of his hand. “We have all the time in the world.”

 

(That is not true.)

 

Tony fixes Nebula’s arm. She doesn’t say thank you.

Then, she brings him something that looks like chips, and tells him to eat. Tony also doesn’t say thank you.

They are not good with kindness, it seems.

One more thing they have in common after all.

 

( _That is not true_.)

 

Tony starts to get a little faint after some time.

He’s not sure exactly how long. It feels like a couple of hours, but by the battered state of his body and the completely drained state of his mind, he can’t be sure. It starts off slow. At first, he thinks it’s just his body losing the adrenaline, his muscles going numb and him losing all feeling of his toes and fingers, his eyelids getting surprisingly heavy every time he tries to keep them open. He passes off as sleepiness, despite him knowing the numbness is not normal. But for safety’s sake, he tries to keep himself awake, observing the ever-shifting numbers on the panels of the Benatar, even when they start to make even less sense than they did before.

All he knows is that one second, he is fine—

And in the other, when he blinks, tiny sparks of white burst behind his eyelids, and the entire world just tilts right in front of his eyes and he gasps when he feels his body swaying and leaning too much to the left, and he almost loses balance on the chair and falls down to the floor.

“Stark.” Nebula warns, startled, and she extends a hand fast enough to grip him by the shoulder, pushing him back into his seated position, and the entire world goes white for a moment before it shifts back into place, except now it’s all rotating around him.

“I’m okay.” Tony reassures her, holding himself with a strong grip at the seat, even when his body starts to drop in the same direction, his spine losing all strength bit by bit. “Just a little dizzy.”

“Did it shift?” Nebula asks, and Tony, for a second, has no idea what she’s talking about, until she comes forward, eyes sharp on the wound in his belly as crouches in front of him, voice urgent. “Is it cutting you?”

“Might just be the blood loss.” Tony points out, unhelpfully, distantly realizing he’s sounding a little slurred, and his sweat feels cold. It’s clamming at the back of his neck and going down his lower back, his hands starting to tremble a little. “Are you cold? Or is it just me?”

Nebula lets out a harsh sound, something Tony recognizes as a curse even if he can’t tell what _language_ it was uttered in; And she gets up and starts rummaging through cabinets and compartments and cluttered surfaces, until she finds a big, checkered blanket dropped on the floor, and hastily grabs it and brings it back to the front of the ship.

“Do you even feel cold?” Tony stupidly asks, mind going fuzzy, and his tongue suddenly feeling very, very loose. It’s never a good sign. Tony knows he gets very chatty when he’s about to lose consciousness. Rhodey has complained about it many, many times – no, no, _don’t think about Rhodey, don’t_ –, since Tony had been young and stupid and drunk at MIT.

He’s going to black out soon.

(And might not wake up after.)

He can’t even muster the energy to be concerned about the idea.

“Barely.” Nebula curtly replies, before almost smothering Tony with the blanket by how much strength she uses to wrap it around him, pressing the edges of it to his hands firmly. “Hold tight.”

Tony does, unconsciously, but before Tony can ask her what she means by _barely_ , she gets up and stalks to the command board, her strides full or purpose, and she sits down on the pilot chair and starts pressing so man buttons that Tony can’t even begin to guess what she’s doing.

“Must be nice.” He deliriously mutters, head lolling back, hitting the wall behind him with a dull sound that somehow vibrates all the way inside of his temples. “Not feeling cold.”

The sound keeps echoing in his head, even when the metal plate of the wall behind him stops vibrating with the impact. It sounds weird. A dull, distant sound of a hard plate, so tangible Tony can almost feel the way it crawls inside his brain like a worm, finding a place to nest deep inside his cortex.

It makes him— it makes him _anxious. Anguished._

Dull metal sounds. A hard hit. Vibrating all the way down to his bones.

His eyesight starts to get dark at the edges, like a bad photo filter, and in a completely stupid move to keep himself awake, Tony brings his heavy, heavy head forward and slams it back again, much softer than he’s intended, because his neck can’t seem to be firm enough to hold the weight of his skull after all. But sure enough— There it is, the distant, dull sound, something that Tony seems to hear not by his ears, but by the back of his head, like it comes from the inside, and for some reason it _hurts_ and it makes him want to close his eyes and disappear.

When he does, and the world goes black, he immediately regrets it.

(It’s cold.)

“Wake up.”

A burst of pain jolts him back awake, a hot, stinging sensation at his left cheek, not enough to hurt all the way to his teeth and jaw, but more than enough to make him startle and open his eyes.

“What?” Tony babbles.

Nebula gives him two more slaps, strong enough to sting, to make sure he stays awake. “We can land. Tell me where to land.”

“Where are we?” Tony asks, confused.

He just wants to close his eyes for a second. His head is still vibrating. It hurts.

“ _Tony Stark._ ” Nebula snarls, shaking him by the shoulders. “Answer me. Where do we land?”

Where do they land? Land what?

He doesn’t know. How could he know?

“Where were you last?” Nebula asks, loud and harsh, like she is screaming. “Before Maw brought you to his ship. Where were you?”

Why is she screaming? If she wants to talk to him, she can get closer.

(Why is she so far away?)

“New York.” Tony hazily remembers, after a long, long struggle to think over his haze, trying to keep himself focused, to no avail. But New York seems like the right answer, right? New York is home. Pepper is in New York—

(Don’t think about Pepper.)

Why is he not supposed to think about Pepper?

He can’t remember.

The hands on his shoulders disappear suddenly, and Tony has a brief moment of the most complete, absolute panic, the lack of touch as terrifying as the darkness outside the windows, as the silence surrounding him – And when a jolt makes something in his chest pull forward, a tug that comes straight from the place where is Arc Reactor, his _heart_ is, Tony descends into nearly full panic, eyes wide and heart hammering inside his bruised ribcage; But even when he tries to raise his hands and grasp the hands again, his body doesn’t even respond enough to make him drop the edges of the blanket between his numb fingers, and his movement is so awkward it actually makes him tilt, losing balance, and he doesn’t have the strength to push himself back into position again.

Tony is slipping, his vision is getting blurry and his body is so, so heavy, his arms and legs tingling, and he will never know if he hit his head on the bench on his way down, because before he could tip over completely, he goes out like a light.

 

 _Iron Man_ , he thinks he hears someone say.

It’s a scream. A desperate, horrified scream.

_Iron Man!_

Tony doesn’t know what it means.

There is no Iron Man here.

There is only Tony.

Frail, sluggish, _dying._

(Stupid, _stupid_ Tony.)

 

“Mr. Stark? Mr. Stark, can you hear me?”

( _Mr. Stark?_ )

( _I don’t feel so good._ )

“Mr. Stark, can you hear me?”

No. Tony doesn’t want to hear it.

 

He wakes up, eventually.

It takes a while. He remembers flashes of color and light, of cold, of pain, of _voices he’ll never hear again_ , but it all fades to black so fast he can’t make anything of it until it’s too late. When he finally wakes up for longer than two minutes, it’s slow, drawn-out, like dragging himself outside a hole in the sand with his bare hands, fingers slipping constantly between the grains, a struggle and a punishment.

But he does wake up.

That’s a marvel in itself, he supposes. No _wakes up fine,_ or _wakes up hazy_ or _miserable._ He simply… wakes. Besides feeling aware, he doesn’t feel anything else _at all._

He doesn’t recognize his location. He’s laying down on something hard, a little chilly, and there’s a blanket thrown over him, but it’s not doing much considering the cold feeling is coming from _under_ him, not above.  For a small fraction of a second, something inside him tells him he should _panic,_ and he immediately looks down, at his chest, expecting to find it once again connected to a car battery, full of shrapnel and scars, bruised black and blue; But although there’s _blue_ , the shape is different, the size is different, and Tony lets out his breath in a painfully relieved rush, sagging back against his bed – because it _is_ a bed, it’s a _hospital bed_ –, and for an instant, he revels in the feeling that he can _breathe_ at all. His abdomen is wrapped up in bandages, clean and white, _not bleeding_ , and he allows his head to fall back and rest against the cold cot under him, blinking away the tears that wallow in his eyes in a far too vulnerable discharge of adrenaline.

“I said you wouldn’t die.” A voice tells him, not smug, but close, and Tony’s eyes snap to the left and he’s caught totally off guard by the _blue alien android_ by his bedside; Who Tony _knew_ it wasn’t a hallucination but could very well try to convince himself it was, had he woken up alone.

(Nebula.)

(Guardian. Android. _Gamora’s sister._ )

( _Nebula._ )

 _You stayed,_ Tony almost blurts out, and stops himself at the last second by biting the tip of his tongue forcefully.

(Why?)

“Looks like it.” He says instead, and all his smugness is completely overshadowed by how entirely _awful_ he sounds, scratchy and dry, like he just swallowed sandpaper. “Where are we?”

“Hospital.” Nebula answers, and her mouth wraps around the word with slight discomfort, as if it is unusual to her. “New York. Where you told me to land.”

Tony almost wants to press her for more details, because _yes, a hospital, but which one?_ , but he knows it’ll be futile. Nebula won’t be able to tell him which one. She’s an _alien._ Tony looks around for himself, trying to gather any details that could help him decipher this enigma – although he knows that he, of all people, will be the least likely to recognize a hospital, considering he avoids them like the plague, except for when he visits children at their wards.

( _Stop thinking about children._ )

( _Don’t._ )

Actually, when Tony looks around, he realizes he’s not even in a _room._ He’s in a corridor. He’s at the end of a long hall, close to a door that says _3.14_ and with no visible doctors or nurses or even other _patients_ nearby. There’s a lot of noise coming from somewhere far away, a lot of voices and some cries, babies and adults alike, and the constant rustle of movement and footsteps all around.

Tony immediately knows the hospital is full. He can’t see anyone besides Nebula, but he _knows._ He knows what chaos sounds like. Why he’s at a corridor and not a room also tells him something – when he arrived, the rooms were _already full._ Nebula was probably the one who brought him here, to isolate him from all the others, not trusting the other patients and maybe not even the staff—

“Do you feel pain?” Nebula asks after a beat, almost as an afterthought, interrupting his line of logic harshly.

Tony makes a pause, surprised, both at her tone and at his own lack of worry or discomfort. “Not… right now.”

“Then they probably did something right.” Nebula comments, slightly more satisfied. “I thought you’d die for a moment.”

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and he looks at her “At least you’re honest.”

( _Why did you stay?_ )

How is… How is Nebula _here_? People know she’s here, right? She’s literally right by his bed, even though the corridor is empty. People have certainly seen her. How did no one freak out by the sight of a blue android alien walking around with Tony wounded, after all the shit New York has been through? Did Nebula fight anyone so they’d let them in? It sounds like something she might’ve done. But nothing seems broken, not as far as Tony can see, and Tony definitely feels the heavy, sluggish feeling he always feels after a night or two at a hospital, the weight only a drug-induced slumber can cause, so he’s been here for a while.

How the hell did they get in here?

Did someone help them? Did anyone—

Tony jolts in bed, his whole body painfully spasming in shock, startling Nebula by his side.

“ _Pepper._ ” Tony coughs, struggling to speak past the flaring pain that bursts all over his body, his muscles all unprepared for the sudden movement. “ _Rhodey._ Shit, _where are they!?”_

“Stark, calm down.” Nebula orders, pushing him back down by his shoulder and hip, trying to stop Tony from rolling over the edge of the bed as he intends to. “You’ll open your stitches. Stop it!”

“ _Half the universe._ ” Tony croaks, his heart beating wildly in his bruised chest, the heart monitor attached to him beeping loudly. “I have people— I need to know if they’re ok.”

Tony has to make it back to the Compound. He needs to find Pepper and Rhodey and Happy and – oh God, _May Parker. Oh God._

( _Pete—_ )

( _No, no, not the kid—_ )

( _Please, not the kid—_ )

“Can you help me get out of here?” Tony urgently asks, eyes wide and breath heaving, probably looking like a madman to Nebula.

“You want to escape?” She hisses back, narrowing her eyes. “Will they harm you?”

“No.” They would try to keep him out of harm, in fact, and they would keep him confined in this place for as long as they deemed necessary. And Tony can’t have that. “But I need to be somewhere else. I have to find my friends.”

Nebula assesses him with a careful gaze, and at least, she grants him the courtesy of not pointing out his friends might all be gone by now.

But she doesn’t need to. Tony _knows_.

“You’re here so you can _heal._ ” Nebula points out, firmly.

“But I have people out there who might be _hurt_.” Tony snaps back, irritated.  

“If I help you escape and you die, Stark…” Nebula growls a threat, closing in over Tony threateningly, her face very close to his.

(Who _cares, for fuck’s sake!_ )

But Nebula does. Or at least, she doesn’t want him dead.

She went through three different plans to make sure they wouldn’t pick one that would kill him when they tried to leave Titan. She gave him food. She gave him a way to keep himself warm. And she – she brought him to a hospital, even though she didn’t have to, so she could keep Tony _alive._

Tony’s grateful, he is—

But—

“C’mon, Grumpy Smurf.” Tony insists, his tone weak and stuttering, _pleading_ , because _he needs to go._ “Please? I’m gonna do it, with or without you, but I’d rather have some help.”

Nebula makes that sound again, the one who seems to be a curse, and retreats, exasperated. “Are you always this eager to maim yourself?”

( _Yes._ )

“All I need is a yes or no.” Tony ignores her question, pressing her further. “Nebula. C’mon.”

Nebula stares at him, divided, her face distorted in a hesitant frown, and Tony can’t wait for her answer and so he leans forward, ignoring how hard it is to do so with his abdomen immobilized, gripping the rails on the side of the bed with such force that his fingers turn white.

“I need to know if they’re alive.” Tony confesses, broken and helpless, and his heart squeezes so painfully inside his chest that the monitor goes wild.

Nebula reaches out quickly and unplugs the thing with a quick, deadly movement – half-breaking it, seems like, because instead of flat-lining the machine just goes completely silent – and looks back at Tony, looking two seconds away from wringing his neck.

“Alright.” She grumbles. “But you do as I say, you understand, Stark?”

“Crystal clear, Avatar.” Tony says, even if only to stop the sobbing _thank you_ that tries to climb up his throat, along with the tears he’s trying so hard to ignore that are forming in the corners of his eyes. “You lead the way out, I do the rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, last minute warnings! If this is your first foray into my fics, I strongly recommend you check out the Part 1 of this series, which not only will give you an idea of how I usually go about my stories, but also includes a lot of important details to this part of the series. Of course, you can just roll with it, I certainly can’t stop you, but I’ve already begun filling in plot holes since part 1, so it’d be interesting to give that one a try as well. Fair warning though, if we have any very intense Team Cap members in the audience, it’s going to be tough for you. Just letting you know, I am Team Iron Man and it shows. There is a No Character Bashing tag there, but not everyone has the same reaction to it, I’m afraid. If it’s not your thing, just let it go. 
> 
> Well, for a while at least. I mean, Civil War still happened. The boys are going to have to talk about it eventually.
> 
> Yes, CW is still relevant, even after the snap. What, did you think I would let it go, like the MCU has? No, friend. The MCU might be done, as they have no other use for it anymore, but I am not. And we will talk about it, extensively and carefully.
> 
> Also related to Part 1, I should also let you know there is going to be a very long discussion about Wanda somewhere down this road. It is heavily influenced by AoU, after all. So if we have any Wanda stans in the house, I assure you now that my intention is not to make a open hunting season on Wanda, but you might be bothered by some parts of this discussion. Some of it is not gonna be flattering. This is me letting you know in advance, so don’t say I didn’t warn you. 
> 
> But for now, this is it! Tony, my dear, I’ve missed you terribly. Sorry about that, but you’re gonna hurt for a while. For a good cause, I promise. For all of you who are desperate for our promised SteveTony reunion, fear not, it'll come eventually – but if you think I’m going to make it easy on them, think again. Thanos deals a hard blow, but their problems exist since way before that and I’m not using the space grape as an excuse to pretend five other movies haven’t happened. They have. And in this house, there will be no shoving our problems under the rug. You gotta learn how to use your words, boys. If we gotta do it the hard way, so be it.
> 
> So, to everyone who is new to this ride, welcome, and to those of you who came straight from Part 1, welcome back. We're starting off slow, but don't get too comfortable - I promised you an emotional rollercoaster, and I always keep my promises. I'm glad to have you all here, and I hope you enjoy it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments, kudos, and subscriptions during the first chapter! I'm glad you guys are excited to come on this journey with me! Let's get this party started, shall we?
> 
> You've seen the trailer, right? You must have. Just so you know, the trailer is the only reason why I'm updating this now, because this chapter was supposed to have two other scenes, but I can't say silent for the life of me so I need to mention a few things. So, SPOILERS AHEAD.
> 
> First of all, I want to remind you that this fic won't be Avengers: Endgame compliant. You can tell by the way it started. But not only that - just with the trailer I can already see many problems I'm gonna have with the plot of the movie, despite being very excited for it. I can already spot the inconsistencies. So, trailer or no trailer, the course of this work has not changed. And let me tell you - if my theory of what is going to happen in that movie is correct, this fic might actually be harder on Tony than the movie will be. You can't imagine how that realization makes me feel. 
> 
> There is one thing in particular I'd like to mention that I feel like is essential to truly comprehend the differences in my approach and MCU's approach to A:E. Ironically, the issue is time. I've mentioned before that rumors have implied that the plot of this movie won't pick up until four years after the snap - and not only that, but in the very first minute of the trailer, we see Tony leave a voice message to Pepper, acknowledging he will die because he couldn't reach Earth on time. Do you know what this kind of moments causes? They cause what some people call regrets of the dying. The moment when you realize you're going to die and you can't stop it, many people - and I have no doubt in my mind that Tony is one of those people - simply let all their grudges and hesitations go. It's acceptance of death that causes complete surrender and erasure of past troubles.
> 
> But isn't that good, Machi?, you may ask. At least he'd die relieved. 
> 
> No. That's not good. Not if you don't actually kill him. Why? Because there's way too many problems still left unaddressed, problems Tony WILL have to face eventually. He won't die in that spaceship. I know he won't. So giving him too much time to reach that acceptance is too dangerous to consider. If they shove this acceptance down Tony's throat, everything I feared will become true. CW will be ignored. The many instances where Tony has been mistreated will be ignored. There will be no redemption. There will be a fight, a vengeance, and nothing more. 
> 
> I will not allow it. 
> 
> I'm not making this hard on Tony because he deserves it. On the contrary - Tony deserves so much more than what I'm about to do to him. They all do. But _not_ at the cost of something else he deserves, which is acknowledgment and closure; An honest, meaningful, real closure to all the problems he's faced so far. So this will be a hard journey. This will be painful. This will be horrible.
> 
> But I promise: this will be worth it. 
> 
> So here it is, chapter two. Be careful, Tony's in a really bad place right now, and he's not gonna get better for a while. There are many moments in this chapter where he comes close to have an **ANXIETY ATTACK** and one moment in which he actually does, which happens right after "Tony takes in a huge breath (...)" and ends with "Tony blinks confusedly (...)". You can skip it if you want to, and you can check this symbol ! to read a description of what actually happens that causes Tony to have the attack, so you can understand his reasons. 
> 
> But still, please be careful, and do be aware that while this fic has the intention of making this better, Tony's anxiety will be an issue we will talk about constantly, because it is important not only for his character but also for the story. I'm not giving him time to "deal" with it. I'm not giving him time to accept it or to get used to it. Not yet. Now is not the time. Not because he deserves to suffer - but because pain, _guilt_ makes us do incredible things.
> 
> If you're in this for the long run, as I am, you should know that by now.
> 
> Marvel, that was a great trailer. I loved it, I truly did. Now, let me show you how I'd do it.

Escaping a hospital should never, ever, be as easy as it was.

It shouldn’t have been easy, really – Because one, he _is_ severely injured, his entire torso stiff and aching, his body still torn from the attack of his own blade; And two, because Nebula is the less helpful partner for a stealth mission in the world, considering that she is, you know, _blue._

But it is. It’s far _too easy._ The corridor in which Tony’s bed was cornered into was completely empty, ever since he woke up, and all doors across it are closed tight and never once moved. The lights are off, he belatedly notices. Far down the hall, where the corridor meets the circulation area, the fluorescent lights are on as they should be, and the walls and floor are so white they hurt his eyes. But the corridor, his corridor, is dark. Dim and secluded, a small space where he feels totally detached from the outside, a tiny piece of a world that feels like it shouldn’t exist.

A bubble suspended in time, too peaceful to be true.

The rustle and noise that indicate the presence of other people, although loud, is always too distant to be a concern. Or maybe _extremely concerning,_ considering all things.  No one comes to check up on him. There are no footsteps sounding nearby. Besides Nebula and himself, the floor seems empty, and there are no handcuffs on his wrists or straps holding him down to prevent him from escaping.

Tony can simply get up and walk away.

It should not make him feel as frightened as it does.

(What happened?)

A bubble. _Not true._                                                         

( _What happened?_ )

He swings his legs to the side of the bed as awkwardly as a plastic doll, limbs locked with the unpleasant, fading sensation of muscle cramps, his bones heavy and balance altered by his unnatural posture. Nebula is forced to help him up again, ducking a little so she can wrap her hand around Tony’s wrist and pull it over her shoulders, her other hand wrapping around his back and settling right below the line of bandages across his torso, steadying him with almost military precision. Seeing as Nebula broke the heart monitor, the only sound echoing through the hall is Tony’s harsh breathing, the grunts that escape his lips when his sides ache just a little too painfully, his body too cold not to protest with the strenuous movement after so long just laying still.

It's like his bones are made of cheap plastic. How ironic, he thinks, as Nebula’s metal hand closes itself around his bruised forearm, and the pressure on the giant bruise there makes him flinch, just a little bit.

If Tony were in a better place – physically, _mentally_ –, he’d crack a joke about his age. But there is not a single ounce of humor in him right now.

He is _exhausted._ He is just so…

He feels _empty._ Like he has cried everything he had inside him, and now there’s almost nothing left.

And whatever it _is_ left, Tony doesn’t want to look at it.

He has no idea what he will find.

He gets up and looks down at himself again, trying to assess his own physical state, what sort of procedure he probably went through and how his recovery is going. He shouldn’t be walking, he knows that much, but since staying here is not an option, he will simply ignore that concern entirely. Other than that, his bandages seem to be in very nice condition, white and clean, and although there is pain, it’s not unbearable. It’s a surprise, considering how ugly the wound was. Far better than he was hoping to feel. They gave him the good stuff, it seems. He has no doubt one of the IV’s he just pulled off his arm contained morphine, even if just a small amount, by the gentle drowsiness enveloping his mind.

And he thinks—

(Thank God he’s clean.)

(Thank God.)

(At least this won’t be the thing that kills him.)

( _Thank God._ )

And that thought is frightening, because it is relief and disappointment in equal measure, it’s the anxiety and the adrenaline spiking up suddenly, and he doesn’t want to even begin to consider what would’ve happened to him had he been put into a coma due to morphine and a bunch of shots of whiskey combined.

After a long, shuddering breath, Tony blinks rapidly to regain his focus, realizing his heart has started to race and his chest has started tingling, and he needs to _calm himself down_ , he needs to think about something else, he needs to focus on literally anything else other than that. He can feel what’s happening, he knows what this is, and he needs to stop it—

“How am I still wearing pants?” Tony muses out loud, nonsensically, and then, a beat later – legitimately confused, even if he still sounds a little winded. And it’s a good question. When he thinks about it, he has woken up in a hospital enough times to know he should’ve been wearing one of those flimsy hospital gowns, not _sweatpants._ These pants are not even his own. His tracksuit probably was torn off when he was rushed into surgery or something, as it is nowhere in sight, but _whose pants are these?_

Nebula shoots him an unimpressed look, as if he’s stupid, and she reaches down under the bed and pulls out Tony’s tracksuit, torn to shreds, and a shirt he has never seen before.

“Did you steal that?” Tony asks, baffled. “Who did you steal it from?”

Nebula doesn’t answer. She just shoves the shirt in Tony’s hands, who recognizes the gesture as the order it is, and he pulls it over his head and down his body with some slight difficulty, still half leaning on Nebula for support.

He kind of wants to insist on his question, but at the same time, he doesn’t. He wants to ask so many things—

(Why did she bring him clothes?)

(What does she want?)

(Why did she _stay?_ )

But the words just won’t come out of his lips, that are dry and chapped, his mouth still tasting like a damned graveyard – and what does it matter? It doesn’t. It just doesn’t. It doesn’t matter how Nebula got these clothes. All that matters is that Tony is now awake, Nebula is still with him, and they can make a run for it. That’s all that should matter.

But even still, a small, wary part of his mind can’t stop wondering how and when she stole these, from _whom_ , in _what circumstances_ , and what the hell it all means, that she is doing this for him.

Tony has been unconscious, and he doesn’t know for how long; He can’t see a single soul besides Nebula, and he has no idea what he’ll find once he steps a foot outside this hospital – or even this _corridor_. The dread that creeps up behind him and swallows him whole is shivering, dark and ugly, making his fingers twitchy and brow sweaty, and he has to consciously calm himself down or else he will lock up and won’t be able to move.

 _Easy steps_ , he has to remember.

(Get up.)

(Get on the ship.)

He has to stay focused—

(Get up.)

(Leave the hospital.)

Or else he won’t _move._

But he… he doesn’t want to. God, _fuck_ , he doesn’t want to go out there. For all the unknowns Tony has ever faced, this is always the one thing that truly, honestly frightens Tony to his _core._ The very first _second_ where he takes a step back and takes it all in, the _extent of the damage_ , the _consequences_ , and it all comes crashing down on him at once; The regret, the fear, the guilt, and Tony always tears himself apart when it happens, each time more destructive, each time having less and less to give in an attempt to save whatever is left.

( _Half the universe is gone._ )

Beyond these walls, half the universe is gone.

(And he couldn’t _stop it._ )

He doesn’t know what has happened to the world, outside this small, silent, fake shell of protection Nebula has crafted for him.

He doesn’t know if he can fix it.

He doesn’t know _what else_ he has to give.

His hands are shaky as he dresses. Once he’s done, surprisingly, Nebula plasters herself back to his side, tightening her hand around his back, securing his wrist over her shoulder with a firm grip – showing him, without words, that she is ready to proceed, and she wants Tony to be alert for it.

“The windows don’t open.” She says, as if she’s giving him a report, the very same tone she used while they were inside the Benatar – the out-loud strategizing, going over possibilities and options at a quick pace, the very same way _Tony_ does when he finds himself in a pinch. It makes something intense twinge inside his chest. Nebula probably doesn’t know their options here, and she is resorting to Tony’s knowledge of hospitals to find them a way out – like he had resorted to her, to help them escape Titan.

“It’s a hospital, of course not.” Tony automatically replies, falling into the familiar rhythm of arguing back and forth, of bringing up options and shooting them down at an almost instinctive pace. “And I wouldn’t be able to jump with my stomach cut open like a birthday cake anyway. Did you see any elevators around here?”

“Two, down this corridor and two turns to the left.” Nebula remembers, but then presents a counter-argument of her own. “But they lead to the entrance, and there are people there. We would be seen. I’m not sure what we will find on other floors, I had no time to patrol today.”

Tony has to pause for a second to properly compute the information that Nebula was planning on _patrolling_ the hospital – _today._ Which implied she has done it before, while Tony was unconscious.

Once again, something that is not quite fondness, but it’s also not just surprise, floods Tony in a warm rush of sensation. It’s – It’s mindboggling, honestly, even if it happens over and over again, to see Nebula _helping him_ for whatever reason. They don’t know each other. Not _at all_. Hell, Nebula had _no reason_ to even help Tony escape Titan, and even if she did, just because Tony was already there and she might as well take him into the Benatar, she had no obligations to _bring him to the hospital_ after they reached Earth. Much less _stay with him_ until now. She is brash and she is snappish, her eyes are hard and scrutinizing, her hands are always firm, right at the edge between being certain or being forceful, like she will _protect him_ even if he doesn’t _want to_ , even if he doesn’t cooperate, because –

(Because she hasn’t done all this work just to let him die?)

It sounds like something she’d say.

( _You’re not dying on me, Stark._ )

Tony doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t know why she’d care.

He wonders—

(How _this_ will backfire, in the future.)

(Because it will.)

(It always does.)

“Emergency stairs.” Tony says in a rush. “Close to the elevators. Did you see any?”

Nebula’s eyes gleam, hopeful, even when her expression doesn’t shift. “Yes. A door with a red bar on it.”

Tony gives her a curt nod, bracing himself more firmly on her shoulders – and if he ends up pulling her a little closer as he does it, it’s merely a consequence of the strength of his grip, nothing else – and he says:

“Stairs it is.”, and they walk together towards the emergency door.

It takes _forever_.

Tony’s steps are unsteady and his body uncooperative, even if with each step he takes, his blood begins to flow with more force to his unused limbs, his lungs getting used to the odd air inside de building, his hold on Nebula’s shoulders more certain than limp by the minute. It’s like his entire being is restarting after shutting down unexpectedly, and he should feel better—

But he _doesn’t_.

He feels like _shit_ the entire way to the door, even as he divides his focus into keeping himself aware of his surroundings, looking over his and Nebula’s shoulders every few seconds, trying his best to make sure his footsteps won’t make a sound. He takes it all in – the emptiness, the upturned waiting benches and the scattered items on the reception balcony, the dim lights down the hall to the right, the _ominous_ , _scary_ feeling that there’s something, very, _very wrong._

He sees no blood. Which is… something. This is always what he looks for first, it’s always the first evidence of an attack, but he sees no blood. He sees only chaos.

But he knows better now. He has seen what Thanos had done, he has seen the Guardians and Strange and the kid _vanish_ , no trace left behind.

Tony sees no blood, but that does not mean that what he’s seeing isn’t a sign of death.

Nebula has to push open the emergency bar for him, because his hands aren’t strong enough. He’s probably starving, isn’t he? He can’t tell. He doesn’t feel anything in his stomach besides the ache. He sees the plaque as soon as Nebula’s hand pushes the bar and they swing open the heavy door – and the number 7 stares him back right in the face, mocking and daring, and Tony lets out a tired, anguished sigh. Seventh floor.

Fourteen flights of stairs then, and at a _snail’s pace_ , awkwardly balancing himself on narrow steps and leaning heavily on Nebula’s side, injured and lacking nourishment.

Tony would’ve said this couldn’t get any worse, if he didn’t know that as soon as he steps a foot out of this place, it absolutely will.

“Okay, I have to ask. _How_ did we get in here?” Tony grunts, not sure if he even should be talking as he descends the steps, because the combination of struggling to maintain his balance, calculating his steps, breathing as calmly as he can and also _talking_ doesn’t seem to be a very good idea – but there he is, doing it anyway, because he’s _nervous_ , he’s _afraid_ , and he _needs_ Nebula to talk about something that isn’t all the horrors Tony is imagining he will find outside. “How didn’t you get attacked when you showed up, with me dead on your arms?”

“You weren’t dead.” Nebula says, as if that’s an explanation.

Tony exhales slowly. “It’s a figure of speech, Smurfette. Do you know what those are?”

“I just said, you _weren’t dead._ ” Nebula repeats, slightly annoyed. “They knew I hadn’t killed you, and I requested help. They knew I wanted to save you.”

(But why did you?)

“And that was it?” Tony incredulously replies. “No one tried to arrest you? Trap you somewhere? _Interrogate you?_ ”

If there were even police officers nearby. Or security. Or anyone who could’ve helped Tony, in case Nebula hadn’t been an ally, but an enemy.

“They wanted to, but no one dared.” Nebula darkly admits. “I wouldn’t leave you unprotected. I told them so, and they stood down.”

Tony’s eyebrows raise almost to his hairline, his face all scrunched in confusion. “And that was all it took?”

Nebula gives him a hard, unforgiving stare. “I was either that or my knives.”

“Yeah, no, got it.” Tony hastily says, retreating immediately. “Good. No knives. No more knives or sharp objects of any kind from now on.”

Nebula seems pleased that he agrees. But as they continue to descend, Tony can’t help but keep wondering, brows still pinched together in confusion, trying to imagine how their landing must’ve played out. He doesn’t remember a thing, besides the vague sensation of distant voices and numbed touches on his skin. Also like he experienced it all from inside a thick glass cage, a layer of white noise that scrambled his senses, and nothing actually absorbed into his mind. He’s not sure if he should feel lucky or not.

He’s glad nothing seems to have gone wrong, he’s _relieved_ , and Nebula isn’t worried or angry about anything – not any more than she seems to be on a regular basis –, so it all went well, it looks like. But at the same time…

At the same time, Tony still _hates,_ hates the idea that he once again went through a surgery he wasn’t fully awake for, even though he doesn’t know if he wanted to be. He simply doesn’t know. His emotions are a mess, his still slightly groggy mind muddying the present and the past together, recalling with far too accuracy the feeling of the uncomfortable, unnatural heat he used to feel on his sternum when the car battery was still there, the bruises on his ribs and the bruises he sported for weeks into his captivity, his entire torso throbbing constantly, the _same way_ it is now. It doesn’t hurt as much, this time around. He should be glad for that, he should be glad for the _morphine,_ because at his first rodeo, he had _nothing._

But still.

Still, the nagging sensation of wrongness knocks constantly at the back of his head, demanding his attention, making him feel nauseous and sickly, his sweat turning cold, and Nebula can _feel it_ , because she squeezes her hands around him even tighter, unyielding.

“I didn’t know if they weren’t going to harm you.” Nebula quietly admits, as if it’s a _weakness_ , and she should be _ashamed_ of declaring there was something she didn’t know – and it almost makes her sound… not humble, but something _close_ , something _quiet_ and awkward and so incredibly _human_. “It was safer to threaten them, than to leave you exposed. I didn’t give them an opening, not for one second.”

And that sounds actually kind of sweet, until—

Tony’s eyes widen, almost hurting with the strain he feels at his nerves.  “You went into surgery with me?” He asks, so shocked he can’t even begin to comprehend the words that are ringing on his ears, their meaning making _no sense_ , in any shape or form. He almost slips off the step, and he grips the railing hard and suddenly, and even his fingers ache with the movement.

Nebula gives him that look again, the one that makes Tony feels like he’s being an idiot, as if he _should’ve known_ , as if that was only _expected._ “You were unconscious and I knew about the functioning of your biomarkers. They operated you on my instructions, or else you wouldn’t make it.”

And suddenly, Tony has the vivid imagery of Nebula barking orders at an intimidated, cowering team of surgeons, all of them struggling to hold their scalpels and other tools with steady hands, fear making them quake under Nebula’s dark glare. It’s fucking _scary_ , the thought. Tony can only imagine how surreal it must have been for whoever operated him, to have a blue android looming over them, snarling and threatening, with a posture that promised terrible things to come if any of them so much as _hurt Tony_ , after all she as gone through to save him.

Why the hell had they _allowed_ it?

(Too afraid to kick her out? I mean, look at her.)

But Nebula did say they had needed instructions of his biomarkers, or else the mesh wouldn’t recede. Fuck, she probably tinkered with the nanite compartment too.

(Is it too late to be upset about it? Probably.)

(What would be the point, if she—)

( _How the hell are you so comfortable with the alien android messing around with your **heart**_?)

But they all just… Trusted the blue robot with Tony’s safety? _Should they have_? It worked out in the end, so… maybe? But Nebula didn’t actually _know_ how the mesh worked, she just guessed it based on what Tony had told her on the Benatar and what she had seen during the fight against Thanos. Did she really figure it out entirely, based only on that? Did she—

Did she _know_ how it worked? Does she work in a similar way?

Maybe she did. Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe they opened Tony up and when they realized how messed up he is inside, when they saw the huge lump of the mesh rearranging itself inside Tony’s body to keep him from bleeding out – too much, at least –, they realized they wouldn’t be able to cut it out without killing him. And Nebula knew. Nebula knew the mesh responded to him, the same way the armor did. And she instructed them, not giving away too much — just enough, enough so they could help Tony, because Nebula is the wariest being Tony has ever met and she obviously didn’t trust anyone. She _followed him into surgery,_ for fuck’s sake.

So she did. She guessed how it worked, how _Tony_ worked, and she took the lead and guided the operation, _she protected Tony_ , and they trusted her because—

Tony’s mind halts suddenly, his entire body giving a weird, aborted spasm mid-step, something that makes Nebula’s grasp on him get firm and secure once again, and it makes all kinds of alarms blare inside of Tony’s mind, loud and deafening and desperate, something instinctive and defensive and self-destructive all at once, something that makes Tony’s gut tighten so bad it almost makes him sick.

(Oh.)

(They thought—)

The world knows what Tony can do with machines. They think of him like a tech-whisperer. They had seen Tony create Iron Man, the Iron Legion, _Ultron._

(Vision.)

Machines so real they seem _alive._

(They probably thought—)

They thought Nebula was one of _his’._

Nebula looks at him out of the corner of her eyes, and the movement is weird, as her eyes are almost solid black all the way through; But he can sense the motion, can _feel_ her stare, heavy and scrutinizing, taking in details of the shift in his stance and movement so quickly he feels like a small animal, being observed by a predator.

“You were safe.” Nebula says, misinterpreting his sudden tense posture and raised shoulders as concern; And her words are not a comfort, but it’s _close._ It’s an offering of something, something gentler, something more thoughtful, something… _more_. “I made sure of it.”

Tony chokes on nothing when he tries to answer, and he has to try again.

“Somehow, I can’t doubt that.” Tony affirms, out of his depth, the breathlessness he feels far less related to his physical strain than he’d like to admit.

He wants to ask more, but the… the idea that just popped into his mind renders him speechless. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He doesn’t _want_ to think about it. _He doesn’t_. It’s not fair to Nebula, they don’t even know each other, not really, and Tony doesn’t want to allow himself to dwell too much on what are the unspoken connections he could so easily make between himself and her without even thinking about it.

No. No, he won’t do it. _Stop it,_ Tony. Nebula isn’t his’.

She would probably punch him in the face if he ever dared to act like she was. _Not that he would._ Because he wouldn’t. She is not. Tony fixing her shoulder has nothing to do with it. It’s… It’s just what Tony does. He sees broken tech, he fixes it. That’s all. He’d just been paying back Nebula’s help, when she helped him into the ship. They are only helping each other survive this, and that is that.

They are together on this because they have no other choice, nothing more.

( _Together._ )

It’s ridiculous that anyone would think that Nebula is his’.

As if Tony could ever create something as… As _unbreakable_ as Nebula.

So he says nothing, because it’s better if he doesn’t, and they continue to go down the stairs.

In the silence, their descent is even more disturbing. By the time they reach the third floor, the amount of _noise_ Tony can hear has grown so loud, so sharp and distressing that his shoulders tense in a way it almost makes his back hurt. With every single step, every centimeter he gets closer to the exit, he gets more and more alert, more _concerned_ , more _panicked_ , his senses nearing overload so quick it almost seems to suck life right out of him. He wants to reach out, to tap his Reactor, _just to make sure it works_ , so he isn’t defenseless, so he isn’t _useless_ , but the mere presence of Nebula stops him from doing it. He doesn’t know why, but his hand won’t move.

“Did you—” Tony begins, but he immediately stops when he realizes that the words that are about to leave his lips will sound too much like an accusation. He’s been practicing on, you know, _not doing that_ —

(Because of the kid—)

And it’s for the best, because Nebula _surely_ would have been offended if Tony had worded it like he almost did. She is kind of high-strung, he reminds himself, not exactly the warm and fuzzy kind of person. So he stops, and tries again.

“Does my Reactor still work?” Tony asks, quietly, and the very second Nebula’s brows furrow – _she has no brows, that’s so weird_ , Tony’s only noticing that now –, he realizes he said the _wrong name again_ , and has to explain himself. “The nanite compartment. If I try to activate it now, will it work?”

“It will, but you shouldn’t.” Nebula firmly says. “You are in no condition to fight.”

“I might _not have a choice._ ” Tony stresses back, exasperated.

“No one will dare attack us. And if someone did, I can take them down alone.”

Tony gives out a little sarcastic hum, snorting. “Sounding a little arrogant there, Smurfette.”

Nebula halts for a brief second, staring at nothing, and her entire body goes stiff and defensive all at once. “I am one of the strongest people in the galaxy.” She hisses at _nothing_ , not at Tony, even though she is speaking to him. But the bark on her tone, her bitterness, her anger – it is all reserved to something inside her head. Tony is all too familiar with it not to recognize it. “And I have fought worse than a few humans.”

And it’s probably true, so Tony can’t argue with her.

“I need to see if it’s ok anyway.” Tony insists. “I had my AI with me before I left Earth. The connection was severed when we breached the atmosphere – I need to try and reconnect, to see if she’s alright.”

“I have no tools with me.” Nebula points out.

Good point. Tony also doesn’t have anything on him he can use, and all he could _maybe_ make work as a tool, he won’t be able to obtain unless they venture inside the hospital again and risk being seen.

“I need my workshop.” Tony realizes, breathing low and quiet, as the admission could cause chaos if uttered too loud.

Nebula nods, all business, no hesitation at all. “How do we get there?”

(We.)

( _Together_.)

“The Compound.” Tony affirms, shaking his head minutely to disperse the intrusive, frankly _invasive_ thoughts. “I need to start on damage control, right away. Find out whoever is… left. Gather a team, get to work.”

Because that’s what Tony does. He fixes things to keep himself busy.

Simple steps.

(Get up.)

(Get on the ship.)

(Leave the hospital.)

( _Fix this._ )

“Where did you leave the ship?” Tony inquires, looking at Nebula with curious eyes.

“It’s still around here.” Nebula replies. “Behind the building.”

“You…” Tony stutters. “You left an alien spaceship on a hospital parking lot?”

“Isn’t it where you’re supposed to leave a vehicle?”

“Yeah, _cars_ , not _alien spaceships_!” Tony exclaims. “What if someone destroyed it? What if someone _stole it_!?”

“You think a human would steal an _alien spaceship_?” Nebula throws back at him, full of snark.

“You see, _that’s_ how I know you’ve never been to New York.” Tony quips back. “People around here steal _everything._ ”

He huffs, baffled, barely believing he actually just heard that. There’s an alien spaceship on the backyard. Oh _God_ , there’s an alien spaceship on the backyard and it’s going to cause a fucking _war._ As soon as someone notices it there’s going to be screaming and rioting and Tony is _injured_ , how is he going to explain Nebula’s presence to people?

But—

What if someone already has? What if someone has already seen it? It’s _not small._ Jesus fuck, what if someone really stole it?

( _How long had that thing been left there? Long enough?_ )

And then, he stops. His horrified internal rant just… stops. Because Tony suddenly notices he still hasn’t asked one question, the question he fears the most, the one he thinks will probably break him one way or another, no matter what answer he might receive.

He doesn’t want to ask it.

It should’ve been the first thing out of his mouth. And it damned nearly was. It almost was, when Tony got up and looked down at himself and his heart went _wild_ , going tight and beating too fast, spreading pain inside his chest and down his stupid left arm, and he nearly hyperventilated. So he put it away, and he didn’t ask.

But he has to.

He _has to._

Not only because he needs to know if someone might’ve stolen their ship, but he needs to know—

“How long?” Tony whispers, a little shakily. “How long have I been here?”

“Nearly 58 hours.” Nebula says, and then, again, as an afterthought, “The days are faster here.”

Tony exhales heavily, something uneasy twisting in his stomach. “Over two days.”

Two days.

( _Two days_.)

Two days, and the air feels wrong. Two days, and the world is both too loud and too quiet, and he doesn’t see a single soul.

Two days isn’t that long.

( _What happened outside these walls?_ )

“Did anyone come for me?” Tony asks breathlessly, hoping Nebula can’t feel the way his heart jumps inside his ribcage the same way he can, loud beats against the bone, like a fist pounding against his sternum trying to break him from the inside out. “Did anyone recognize me? Anyone?”

Nebula makes a pause, one that feels _too_ heavy, _too_ loaded, even when her reply is reasonable enough. “The medics who tended to you did. They screamed at you when you passed out, on the way to the operation. They called you Iron Man.”

Tony waits for a second, the silence torturous and the wait even more so, but Nebula doesn’t elaborate further. “No one else?”, he anxiously presses.

“No.” Nebula murmurs, sorrowful. “I don’t think they could.”

A cold, horrid feeling freezes Tony’s body, panicked dread flooding his thoughts, and all he can do is whimper his next question, his voice too frail, his heart too bare, his mind too _raw_ , too much _fear_ for him to be able to speak too loudly.

“What do you mean?” He asks, like a child – a child who has seen too much but it’s still so painfully naïve, a child who still wants to believe they won’t be hurt, knowing that they will anyway.

Nebula looks at him, and her eyes give him _nothing._ “You will see.”

And Tony wants to ask, he wants to press her for answers, he doesn’t want to be left in the dark anymore, even if the dark is safer, even if he knows it’ll hurt.

But his lips won’t move. He cannot speak.

So he walks, in silence, and Nebula holds him the entire way.

They reach the first floor eventually – too soon, yet not soon enough – and they walk as silently as they can while searching for a way out.  Nebula spots the signs that guide them to a back door, the plaques that lead to the secondary exit, the back entrance, right ahead of them, and that’s where she takes them. And the more it gets closer, the more difficult is to Tony to keep walking, the harder it is for him to obey the very simple command of _keep going_.

He wants to turn back around. He doesn’t want to go outside.

But he _does._ He needs to _see._ He needs to _know._

(But it’ll _kill me_.)

He needs to know.

The red panic bar stands there before Tony, a mocking guardian of freedom, a cosmical fucking _joke_ in the middle of everything that’s happened. A panic bar is separating Tony from the outside, from _everything_ that will _give him_ panic, from the sounds, from whatever happened out there, from the very real, inescapable consequences of the shortcomings of Tony’s actions.

Tony reaches out, and puts his hand on the panic bar. His palm is clammy and disgusting. He has no strength to push it.

Nebula looks at his hand for a second, the briefest, quieter of beats; And then releases his wrist, holding him tighter with the hand around his waist, and without a word or a worried glance, she puts her free hand on the bar beside Tony’s and pushes, right as he does as well, and the bar moves under their fingers and opens the door slowly.

It feels like the opening of the gates of hell.

Tony looks outside.

And the first thing he sees is _dust._

 

You would think chaos is a familiar concept to him.

Tony knows chaos.

(Oh no.)

Tony knows destruction.

( _Oh no._ )

But even Tony, who is the Merchant of Death, who has seen chaos in so many forms, has _carried it_ inside his _mind_ and inside his _heart_ –

He has never known _this._

 

(No.)

( _No._ )

 

The city is _empty._

_New York—_

_New York is fucking **empty.** _

(Oh God.)

(No.)

The vision in Tony’s mind, the memories he has stored from years and years of absorbing death into his bloodstream like drugs or alcohol, from trading war like one would trade cards, is very, very clear. It’s the same image he still sees when he thinks of Afghanistan, of _Gulmira_ , and it’s filled with dirt and blood and terror, of screams and noise, of gunshots, of footsteps, of dying breaths. He knows what it sounds in the city, too. It sounds like cars crashing, windows and glass doors being broken, buildings falling, _screaming._

There’s _always screaming._

Never silence.

( _Fuck_.)

But New York—

_New York is silent._

( ** _Fuck_** _._ )

No, not _silent._ There’s noise. There’s _fire,_ and _explosions_ , and crackles and dripping and crumbling, there are sirens and alarms and _so much noise._ He can’t hear himself _think._ He opened that door – he opened one door and the world exploded around him, a cacophony of decay and madness, and Tony doesn’t even know where to _look_ , what to focus on, because there’s _so much_ and he doesn’t understand what’s going on.

But these are the sounds of a city abandoned, nothing more, because none of those sounds is _human._ There's no people.

New York is a ghost town now. Tony has come home two days too late.

And his home is _dead_.

The air is stale and rancid, dry as sand, so sharp and dusty and polluted it almost feels _solid_ in his heavy, sensitive lungs. Tony tries to take in a deep breath, unconsciously, his mouth falling open in terrified shock and agonized realization – and he chokes on _nothing_ , his throat closing up against an invisible intrusion, throwing him into a coughing fit that makes his entire torso burst into flaring pain once more, feeling like his ribs are piercing his organs, one puncture at the time.

He coughs and coughs and it hurts, his eyes water and he can’t breathe right, and Nebula calls his name in a panicked voice when he starts to go red in the face, exertion and lack of oxygen nearly making him topple, his head fuzzy and unfocused. His throat is completely raw. He tries to blink away the water in his eyes, but they’re the only thing allowing him to see past the thick fog of dust, the absolute dryness of the air, and his stomach hurts so much he can’t stop tearing up even if he wanted to.

Jesus fuck, it _hurts._

It hurts, it hurts.

He can’t even take it all in. He can’t _comprehend_ it. He looks and what he sees is just—

(His home is dead.)

(His home is _dead._ )

The road is completely blocked, in every direction and in every corner. There is no way to even _cross somewhere._ There are abandoned cars all over the avenue, crashed into nearby stores and into each other, letting out gusts of gray smoke into the air, smearing oil all over the asphalt and darkening the floor into a deep, thick, viscous black. The doors are all open, and left like that, as if a quick escape has happened. As if suddenly, all drivers just ran away, leaving everything they had behind. And they did. That’s exactly what they did.

He tries to breathe, tries to take in a large gulp of air to calm himself down – but when he inhales, the dust and the smoke come with it, and they taint his lungs like poison, and it _suffocates_ him. He feels like he’s inhaling sand. He feels like he might be inhaling _ashes._

The sky is _gray._ A sickly, wrong gray, clouds of ash instead of rain. A building _burns_ in his line of sight. Worse than that, it is _destroyed_ , the entire left side charred and broken, as if something _gigantic_ went through it and took down almost four entire floors. Tony can see the structure of the walls and ceilings, and the wires pulled loose from the interior, and they are bursting with sparks of electricity – and it’s making the two top floors _go out in flames._ The building beside it is half-demolished, caught in the destruction of whatever blew up the taller one, and there are _so many other buildings exactly like that._ Half-broken, ripped apart, crumbling in a rain of concrete, stone and iron, only the ruins of a world that Tony once so fiercely loved.

There are windows broken and belongings forgotten, it’s all a cloud of dust and blaring noise and the distant sound of burning, the whistle of the wind and his ragged breathing, and there’s – there are so many cars, and motorcycles, and an ambulance, and _wheelchair_ toppled by the curb… and no one is around.

There is… There is _no one._

_His home is gone._

“They evacuated.” Nebula says, and she sounds distant once more, as if she is miles and miles away. Tony can feel her beside him, a solid, physical presence, but her touch doesn’t register in his mind. It’s no comfort, it’s just _pressure._ Tony can feel her body right beside his – but she still seems so far away, and Tony is so, so _alone,_ and he doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what to do.

(How—)

(How can he ever _fix this?_ )

Tony hadn’t known what he’d find, but he didn’t expect _this._ He expected chaos. He expected damage, and broken buildings, and fire. He expected it. He _knows_ what chaos looks like – he _thought_ he knew. But he is alone, why isn’t anyone here, where has everyone gone!?

Oh, God.

(I’m alone.)

 **No.** No, no, _no._

( _I am alone again._ )

How can Tony ever fix this? How could he ever hope to fix this?

Tony is just a man—

(Just a man in a can. Nothing more. A man in a can.)

How can he fight _this_? He is no – He’s just a mechanic, that’s all he is, all he can do is pick up broken pieces and fit them together again. He can’t bring people back to _life._ If – everyone is _gone_ , what can Tony _do?_ He can’t do _anything._ He can’t avenge them, not alone. Dear God, he doesn’t want to be alone. Why is he alone?

Had Thanos _lied?_

Did he—

Did he lie?

Oh, God.

Oh, _fuck._

_Did he lie?_

Did he lie in Tony’s face, like the maniac, sadistic bastard he was, did he lean down and _lied_ in Tony’s face and killed _everyone_ Tony had tried to protect? Did he wipe away _everything!?_

He could have, the son of a bitch—

( _No, no, that makes no sense._ )

( _People, there were people in the hospital.)_

_(Nebula saw them, Nebula said—)_

But – How – Why can’t Tony see anyone!? This is New York, for fuck’s sake, _New York._ Where is everyone!?

( **Nebula lied.** )

No.

That can’t be it.

(Did she—)

( **She lied.** )

He can’t grip Nebula’s shoulder any tighter. His fingers are so _stiff._ He’s squeezing, as hard as he can, trying to feel _something_ , anything that would make his mind register that she is _right there_ , but his brain won’t _listen._ He’s about to cut himself on the metal shoulder plate of Nebula’s arm, and he still can’t _feel her_ properly.

“Where to?” Tony shakily asks, hopelessly. “Where would they go? New York is – It’s huge, where would they—?”

Nebula does not answer him.

Tony is so shaken he feels like he might start crying.

(Did she lie to him?)

No. No, she didn’t lie. Tony heard voices. Tony heard a _baby_ cry. There’s people. There’s people, and he knows that.

But the dark corners of his mind—

“There are people.” Tony exhales, so suddenly and sharply it almost sounds like a sob. “In the hospital. We have to go back in there. I have to see them—”

— They don’t want to _listen._

“ _No._ ” Nebula forcefully holds him still as he makes the slightest motion in the direction of the hospital again. “If we go back, they will make you go back to the bed. We need to go.”

Tony jostles in her arms, trying to push her away suddenly, revolted, feeling trapped and betrayed and scared and _alone_ , and he’s freaking out, he’s losing his mind completely, he needs to _stop_ or else it’ll _happen again._

“ _Do you see what is happening here!? Where is everyone!?_ ” Tony screams at her, his exclamation verging on frenzied, and his throat scratches and burns and tears apart like ribbons, and he wants… he wants… he just wants to know _what the fuck is going on._ He wants to stop. He wants to fucking _disappear._ “The city is _destroyed!_ ”

“And you are injured and can’t help.” Nebula snaps back. “We need reinforcements.”

“I need to know _what happened!”_ Tony screeches, distraught, because his voice is ragged and desperate and hysterical, he is angry and he is ashamed and he is _mourning_ , _he can’t take much more of this_.

(She lied!)

_Stop that!_

( ** _You’re alone!_** )

“Are there even any people in there?” Tony inquires, throwing the accusation right at Nebula’s face, uncaring of how she will react for the very first time. He squints at her, suspicious, so damned suspicious and on edge that he can only register at the back of his head that he is accusing a being who has admitted having several knives on them and no fear of using them if necessary, and he doesn’t give a shit.

Nebula lets him out of the hold of her arms, her expression sour and offended, borderline enraged, and growls at him, “You think I’m _lying_ to you?”. Her entire face is distorted in disgust, and she’s threatening, she’s every bit of that scary android he thought she could be, and it’s all directed to him. “Why the hell would I lie to you, if trying to help you? What would I gain!? What do you think– I’m not _Thanos!_ ”

Oh, _shit, fuck._

(Why did you do that? Why the fuck did you do that for, huh!?)

Past the rage and the panic, past the adrenaline pumping into his veins like a drug, the quivering of his exhausted muscles and his ragged breaths, Tony feels the hot, burning feeling of _shame_ coiling inside his chest, a heavy stone sitting right on top of his heart, and Tony averts his gaze immediately, scolding himself like a misbehaving child.

She helped. Nebula helped, didn’t she? And Tony heard the voices, the cries. He did. But… But Nebula could have just forged that – But again, why would she? What sort of elaborate scheme could she have, that would make all of this necessary? There’s no explanation Tony can find besides the obvious, even if the obvious makes no sense: She really is just helping.

And she is right. Tony knows that. Deep down, Tony knows that.

He shouldn’t have accused her of lying.

(But she could have—)

He _shouldn’t_ have done it. That was his mistake.

But Tony’s biggest mistake was to think he could still stand up without Nebula’s support.

Nebula pushes him away just as Tony tries to take a step back, and he immediately regrets it. His knees are weak, and they give under him lightning fast, the joints not even making an effort to hold him up, and as soon as he feels his balance shifting, his heart rate goes wild and he suddenly can’t breathe.

This time, it has nothing to do with the air.

It has _everything_ to do with the feeling of something popping open on his belly, and the sharp, hot flare of _pain_ that bursts inside him, and the disgusting, terrible, _dreadful_ feeling of something _wet_ soaking the bandages around his belly and turning them soggy and warm and gross, and the agonizing shock he feels on his kneecaps when they hit the cement, his hands too slow to stop his fall, actually only making it all worse when his palms scrape the ground and he hurts himself on the rubble and dirt.

“Shit!” Nebula hisses, all her anger vanishing as pure, unveiled concern washes over her features, and she lunges in Tony’s direction a little too late to stop him from falling.

And then, only when he’s leaning down, only when this angle allows him to look under the SUV directly in front of him, blocking the street—

Only then he sees the _body._

The—

The _body—_

Tony takes in a huge breath, ready to _scream_ , and the entire gulp of air just gets _stuck_ on his throat, and he chokes on nothing.

The world spins around Tony, out of focus like a speeding car, and Tony’s body locks up completely, all his muscles contracting in pure instinct, so hard and unmoving it feels they’re made of marble. His heart beats so loud and so furiously he can’t hear anything else past it, exploding inside his chest, and it hurts, it hurts, all the way down to his arms, and Tony desperately wants to reach for his torso and check he isn’t injured, he isn’t bleeding to death again, but his hands are trembling and spasming with the adrenaline, and he can’t move them at all. He can’t feel them. They tingle and they burn, but they don’t _belong_ to him. _None_ of his body does.

He heaves, fast and broken, the air never quite reaching his lungs, his brain desperate for oxygen and going hazy all too fast, shutting down everything; Full of white noise and fear and hopelessness, of sadness and guilt and shame and pain, and Tony can’t stop _staring_ , his eyes _burn_ , he wants to _cry_ , but he has no tears and he can’t blink.

“Stark? Stark!”

He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to look.

( **It’s Peter.** )

( ** _It’s Peter_.** )

( **It’s Peter—!** )

“Stark, can you hear me!?”

Tony lets out a whimper that is so anguished he sounds like an animal, and it hurts his ears. He wants it to stop. He tries to scream, but the only thing that comes out is the same sound again. His throat is closing up.

It’s a body. It’s a _boy_. A kid, so young, so small, he couldn’t have been older than thirteen. He’s just… He’s _lying_ there, eyes still open, mouth parted as if in a gasp, a trickle of dried blood staining his lips. He looks gray, like the entire world around him. He’s all twisted and sprawled, a ragged doll thrown out of the window, left on the floor to be forgotten by time.

He’s dead.

And he looks _so much_ like Peter.

( **No, no, no—!** )

( ** _No._** )

( ** _The kid—!_** )

Someone screams his name and his body shakes back and forth limply, nearly painfully – and suddenly, all he can see is blue.

“Stark!”

Blue.

No body. No Peter.

Blue.

Tony lurches forward on instinct, his eyes still fixated on the same point in space, in the same direction where the body had been, and he tries to push away the blue barrier so he can _see_ , so he can reach for his kid, so he can _save him_. His legs won’t respond, he can’t even fully support his own spine, but he lurches anyway, because his heart is ripping open and he _needs_ to reach the kid.

His entire body is begging him to go, to stay away, to get up and _run_ – close your eyes, close your eyes and _forget this_ –, but he’s still coming forward, bumping against the blue, and shaking in despair when his too weak limbs can’t help him move and help his _kid._

“There’s no threat!” The voice assures him, hasty and firm, almost aggressive, refusing to be ignored. “We’re safe! Stop that! We’re safe!”

He doesn’t listen. He keeps pushing, distressed, even as the wall pushes him back. Even when he can’t breathe, even when he starts to sag and his sweat turns torturously cold. Even when his entire body goes numb and heavy, and he feels himself go empty, even as his mind still burst with static and jolts with unexplained adrenaline and anxiety, a muted cry of despair that goes farther and farther away with every beat; Until he feels like he’s once again trapped inside a bubble, encased inside an armor of foam, everything dull except for the sharp edges of the fear inside his head.

“ _Stark_.” A voice calls, insistent. It barely registers in his muddled mind.

Tony blinks confusedly, his eyelids working frantically and unhelpfully, doing nothing to help him clear his head.

“What?” He babbles, hoarse and breathless, the word barely a whisper.

“There’s no threat.” The voice repeats, pointedly, from very, very close. Quiet. Low. Soft. “No threat.”

“No threat.” He repeats, but on his lips, it sounds like a question. Even so, the voice says it back again, confirming it, reaffirming it, over and over again until the words finally _, finally_ , start to sink in a little deeper into Tony’s head. No threat. He knows. But the kid—

Tony leans to the side, mostly using the pressure of the unknown person with him to keep himself supported, as his left arm is mostly numb and is barely doing anything to hold his weight. He looks over the person’s shoulder – a _blue_ person, _Nebula_ – but from this angle, he cannot see, not the _face_ , but he sees the arm flung to the side and the unmoving fingers, full of dirt beneath the fingertips, and he inhales sharply and averts his gaze quickly, closing his eyes too tightly.

“I’m okay.” He says, unconvincingly, but he has to say it. He has to. He has to _be_ okay, there is no other choice. He needs to breathe, he needs to stop his heart from hammering painfully inside his ribcage, he has to be _clear-headed_ for this. He can’t slip. Not _now._ “I’m okay, I’m okay.”

“What happened?” Nebula asks, sounding actually very concerned, but Tony shakes his head, and squeezes his eyes shut again, a grimace tight on his face, fighting the urge to let tears spill out so hard it gives him a headache.

Nebula looks over her shoulder— and at first, she merely stares at the car behind her, bewildered, clearly not understanding Tony’s explosive reaction; Until two seconds pass, and Tony sees the way her shoulders tense when she looks down and see the other side of the street from under the car’s chassis, and sees the _hand_.

She keeps staring at it for a very, very long time. Long enough for it to be too much. Long enough that Tony only wants her to _say something_ , because he can’t stand her just being silent.

“It’s a body.” Tony mutters, hopelessly. “A body, so… Not Thanos. Something else. Probably from the car crash.”

If Tony had wanted any proof that Nebula wasn’t lying about still having people around, there was no crueler way to give it to him than this. But there it is – there’s his _proof._ A body, no ash, which means whatever killed this kid, it wasn’t Thanos. Merely what he left behind. And it’s been… It’s been _two days_ , and the body is still here, on the street. No one has come for him. For a freaking kid. Probably – Probably, whoever was in the car with him vanished, and the car crashed, and the kid was launched off the seat into the pavement. Or maybe he didn’t die then, but he climbed out of the car, confused and scared, _alone, alone_ , and he didn’t see the van coming closer, too close, too fast—

The kid died on the street, and he’s still here. No one could’ve reached him, not even an ambulance.

He died on the street.

(It would have been kinder to just vanish.)

Tony _hates_ himself for thinking that.

He shouldn’t think that. He shouldn’t he shouldn’t. There is no kindness in that. There is no— _Peter_ vanished, that kid is not Peter, and Peter had _suffered_ , suffered in Tony’s arms— No kindness.

There is no kindness in death. There is also no kindness on life either.

(The world is never kind.)

Before he can berate himself any further, Nebula releases him and stands up, stiff and rigid, her shoulders squared in determination, and Tony unconsciously reaches up and grabs her hand, still too on edge, still unable to comprehend what exactly is happening around him.

“Where are you going?” Tony hurriedly asks, slightly concerned by her posture and demeanor, uncomfortable with the pure seriousness Nebula exudes, even with her back turned to him.

She gives him a hard glance over her shoulder and says, “Stay here.”

“What are you doing!?”

She ignores him. In slow, methodic steps, she goes around the car, her boots not making a single sound on the pavement, until she disappears from his line of sight.

Everything Tony sees then, he sees only in a glimpse – and, somehow, that makes it even more… _meaningful._ Like he’s witnessing something he shouldn’t. Like he has stumbled upon a secret too big to ever be spoken about out loud.

He sees blue hands reaching under a frail back, careful with their movement, and as she finds the right grip, the body slowly gets pulled from under the car, like it’s floating on water and being washed away by the stream. Nebula scoops the boy into her arms and stands up, and Tony watches fixedly as she walks around to the other side, walking away from him, cradling the kid with such… surprising care, tucking his head into the crook of her elbow so he’ll be comfortable and still.

A useless kindness. A bittersweet protection.

A rescue that comes too late.

Two days too late.

Tony’s chest seizes, hurting for that boy, hurting because that is all he can do, and when Nebula walks so far away that she disappears from his line of sight again, he lets his head fall down and a sob escape his scratchy throat, burning all the way up from the depths of him, a lick of pain he fees like it’s deserved.

He breathes in and out. He can taste the dust at the back of his tongue, like he swallowed a mouthful of dirt. It’s disgusting. It makes him want to puke.

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

He doesn’t know for how long.

When he hears Nebula approaching him again, he has calmed down enough that the sweat on his skin feels cold again, not infernally hot as it did before. He can feel the air reaching his lungs again, even if the smell is still stifling. He raises his head slowly, because it feels like it weighs a ton and he can’t move it right with his achy neck; And Nebula stares back at him with sad, mournful eyes, her whole face pinched in sorrow.

The boy is nowhere in sight.

“Where did you take him?” Tony asks quietly, his grief tangible and palpable, like it’s dripping out of him.

“Inside.” Nebula explains, and Tony’s heart _screams_ silently, because he can’t _believe_ this is happening. “There wasn’t a bed, but they will find him eventually. There wasn’t… There’s nowhere else to take him.”

Tony wants to cry. He wants to, but he can’t. He’s too exhausted. But deep inside, the turbulent, roaring feeling he is developing for Nebula, this twisted mess of mistrust and gratitude, it’s shifting and mutating into something that will latch onto him in a way Tony will never be able to let go of. He wants it to stop, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to get attached. He doesn’t want to feel like this.

He doesn’t want to _feel._

But Nebula had just… what she had just done…

Tony knows what that is. He knows _exactly_ what that feels like. It echoes into the very core of him.

He stares back at her, lost and adrift, on his knees and unable to get up on his own.

Aching to touch Nebula again and confirm if she is real.

The way she looks at him, the way her brow shifts just barely, just a hint of confusion and sympathetic concern crossing her features, Tony knows that whatever has just happened to him, it has also happened to her. Something in her perception of him has just changed, and it most likely changed forever. Seeing this – seeing Tony on the ground, panicking and helpless, seeing him weep for a strange kid in the middle of a destroyed New York – has made Nebula see more of him that he had ever planned her to see.

But Tony also saw her.

And now, they are both in too deep in this to simply step away.

Nebula extends her hand at him, careful and deliberate, and asks “Can you stand up?”, but Tony is reaching back before she can even finish the question, and his fingers are so cold her blue skin feels warm under his digits.

“I’m okay.” He mumbles as she pulls him up and half-hugs him again, supporting him without a question – simply pretending the past few minutes simply hadn’t happened.

“No, you’re not.” Nebula counters, but not as an accusation. Just an observation. The reluctant, sad remark of a simple fact. “You opened up your stitches.”

Tony gives a wry chuckle, failing completely to sound nonchalant, but he does it anyway. “Guess I wasn’t ready to be released of the hospital just yet.”

“We need to close you up again.” Nebula scowls, but with no real bite in her voice. She just frowns at Tony, looking tired for the first time since Tony’s met her, and deep down, he feels really fucking guilty that he was the one to make her feel that way. “Hold on tight. I’ll help you back. You can see the people and I can close your wound.”

“ _No._ ” Tony plants his feet firmly on the ground, resistant and ashamed, shaking his head negatively. “No. I believe you. I believe you. It’s ok. I just – I have to make it back to the Compound.”

“But you—”

“I have to look for Pepper and Rhodey, and Happy, and May Parker—” Tony rambles on, knowing he’s not being nearly as successful in distracting her as he should, but he can’t possibly muster the strength to fake this right now.

He just… He doesn’t want to go _back there._

He doesn’t want to go where the kid’s body is.

It doesn’t matter if they won’t see him. It doesn’t matter.

Tony just wants to leave. He wants to go _home._

“You were _just_ complaining for me to bring you back—” Nebula starts complaining, but Tony interrupts her and says:

“And now I’m telling you I want to _leave._ ”

“You’re _bleeding._ ”

“And I’ll bleed more for every second you don’t help me get out of here.”

Nebula looks like she might be imploding, just a little bit, and after a beat, instead of yelling at him – as she _would have_ , as she _did_ before –, she merely sighs.

“ _Humans._ ” She says, like it’s an insult. 

But it’s not. The gentleness of her hold tells him it’s not.

“I need FRIDAY.” Tony says mostly to himself, ignoring her grumbling, starting on a mental list to keep himself occupied, to have just the smallest comfort of pretending he has a plan to work this out. He ignores thoughts of the kid, he ignores everything else. “Where is the ship?”

Nebula gestures to the left with her head, a graceful gesture of her neck, and Tony lets her lead the way to the ship with no protest or complaint. She helps Tony limp to the ship, a slow, careful trip around the perimeter of the hospital, her pitch-black eyes darting to every single corner warily every two seconds, on high alert to any possible threat. Tony feels like he is no more than a sack of potatoes being dragged around, ashamed and embarrassed, absolutely _mortified_ of what had just happened, of the ridiculous, _too vulnerable_ state he allowed himself to be in, but they go, _together—_

(Together.)

Away from this place — and that is all that matters.  

It is _ridiculous_ , it’s _absurd_ that the Benatar is just _right there_ , in the parking lot, as if it was just another SUV or crappy car, but it _is._ It’s just right there, and there is no one else around.

(No one else but the bodies on the street.)

But Tony has never been so glad to see an alien spaceship before.

Nebula helps Tony walk there, slow and careful, _silently kind –_ and every time Tony makes the slightest attempt to turn back and catch one last glimpse of the hospital, or of the street… of the _body_ again, Nebula keeps her hold steady, and keeps him pushing forward, forbidding him to spare a single glance to what they’re leaving behind.

Tony won’t admit that he is grateful, but he is.

Deep down—

He’s really fucking glad he’s - at least for now - not truly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this got angsty, didn't it? I swear I'm gonna make him feel better eventually, I promise. Keyword eventually, but it'll happen, trust me. 
> 
> What happened in this chapter is not random. _Nothing_ in this story will be random. Nothing will happen "just because". Everything has a reason and a function, and I'm very excited to know if anyone can already see the impact this will have going forward on the story, and in Tony's character overall. 
> 
> As always, give me your thoughts and opinions and theories. I always have the best time talking to you guys. Also, you can come chat with me or see what I'm up to on [tumblr](https://machi-kun.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/machi_writes).
> 
> Next chapter, we'll start to go deeper and deeper into MCU's inconsistencies and start picking them apart. The true beginning of the plot. As much as I love writing about characters' inner workings and relationships, this train has to leave the station eventually, right? There is so much plot to this fic, you don't even know. I'm very excited to show you what I have planned.
> 
> See you next time, everybody. Happy holidays to all and I'll talk to you very soon :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2019, everyone! I wish you all much happiness this upcoming year. Here, have a huge chapter to celebrate! And while we're here, let's get into some plot.
> 
> As you've surely noticed, I talk a lot. Not only that, I am an insufferable debater, and I love analyzing details that have seemingly no importance whatsoever, from every single angle I can think of. I'm also a firm believer that the devil is in the details - and details are a very... troubled aspect of the MCU, sometimes ignored, sometimes completely distorted, sometimes not even considered. So I'll go through it all, one by one, and we'll see how far I can go - and exactly how deep the MCU could've pushed our heroes if they wanted to.
> 
> Let's go slow and take it from the top. Starting with a topic that has become a core issue for me - and I suspect to a lot of people as well, for a very good reason: Thanos' plan. We're all familiar with it. With a snap of his fingers, Thanos' intent is to wipe away half the population of the entire universe so he can achieve 'balance' - when he simply could have, you know, increased the resources, or eliminated the distribution problem, or chosen any other more educated option. Instead, he disrupted the entire social structure of the universe and called it a day. But what about populations he already helped diminish in his hunt for the stones? Do they get halved anyway - if they even survived being attacked? What about populations that don't consume resources like humankind - like Groot's race, that consists primarily of beings that produce their own sustenance, meaning there is no proper food chain that establishes a hierarchy of resources and consumers? How does the snap work on them? Because it does, as we all saw it. Is the lack of space left to occupy his main concern? So why not populate abandoned planets and use the gauntlet to make them habitable?
> 
> I'm sure you all can see why that is a stupid plan right away, but to add to the pile of issues I have with it, Kevin Feige has also added that Thanos not only eliminated 'intelligent' life but also animals and plants, and other sentient beings, all over the universe. 
> 
> Oh boy. How can I even begin unpacking all the trouble that information has given me?
> 
> I mean, could ignore it. Canon would allow me to - As the final scene occurs in Wakanda, in an open field literally surrounded by trees, and we don't see any of them disappear with the snap (unless you want to get technical and count Groot as a tree), we could safely assume that Feige is simply shoving his foot up his mouth with that statement. Which, to be honest, he probably is, because from what I can tell from the A:E trailer, the consequences of this action won't be mentioned at all. But then, the more I thought about it, the more interesting it got. I'm not an ecologist by any means, but how horrible would it be if that was actually the case? Thanos already destroyed half our population, how much worse can it get, if we account for the loss of half of every other living thing as well? What are the consequences on a large scale of losing such a big part of our ecosystem so suddenly, and more importantly - Would it even be an acceptable plan to achieve Thanos' intent?
> 
> I had way too many questions to just ignore it - so we're going to roll with it. Thank you, Feige, for this piece of information. You might never use it, but I am going to have a lot of fun with it.
> 
> But on another note, one that has less to do with plot and more to do with characterization, we have another issue we need desperately to discuss: Pepper Potts and James Rhodes. As you can see in the tags, this is full-on IW compliant, which means that at this point in time, Tony and Pepper are still very much engaged, as IW establishes. But as the tags also say, this is a SteveTony fic. Not only that, we've all seen how Rhodey reacted to Steve coming back to the Compound, how not-enraged he was and how strange that is, considering what happened in Siberia - and as the tags say, this is also a Team Iron Man fic. So what the hell is going on here?
> 
> Well, as we did with AoU, we are not pretending none of this happened. You can't really write an in-depth emotional arc for Tony without considering the people he holds dearest to him, can you? So let's talk about it! If this were an Avengers movie, Pepper and Rhodey would probably fade into the background and provide only some mild support and maybe an epic one-liner, not much else. But I've got time, and I've got a bone to pick, so let's make sure Rhodey and Pepper get their fair amount of analysis, as they should in Tony's POV. 
> 
> Poor MCU. I will leave no stone unturned. 
> 
> Let's begin by raising the stakes. Somebody has to. After all, what could possibly stir these incredibly damaged individuals back into action, when they've already lost so much?
> 
> Simple. As the infamous Ultron has said it himself: Extinction.

The Compound is silent when he arrives.   

( _Silence_.)

(No more, please, no more.)

“Rhodes!?” Tony screams as soon as he steps a foot into the door, using all the power of his lungs; His voice echoes against walls, vibrating into empty corridors, his own desperation resounding back to his ears in distressed waves and panic. “ _Rhodey!_ ”

Silence is his only reply.

The Compound is too big. It had to be, at first, because Tony doesn’t do anything half measured. He brought everyone and everything he thought was necessary to ensure they were all safe. That the _world_ would be safe. There had been labs and training grounds, med bays and shooting ranges, R&D and common lounges, _everything_ , for _everyone_ , and every single centimeter had been filled with people talking and thinking and working and _living._

At some points, it almost felt like they wouldn’t have enough room for everything that filled the space between the walls, the heart of the facility too full, bursting with the overflow of energy that came through it at every single moment, hope bursting at its core.

When it’s empty, it doesn’t even feel like the same place.

When it’s empty, every single room is too big.

Too silent.

(Where are they?)

_(Where are they!?)_

“ _Rhodey!_ ” Tony shouts, hoarse and ragged, pushing Nebula away so he can stumble into the Compound with quick, desperate steps, looking around frantically, each corner a new hope and a new crushing disappointment when _no one_ answers to his call. “Pepper! Happy! Vision! Hill!”

(Please, _please,_ where are they!?)

“Rhodes!” Tony screams, until it kills his throat, until his stomach hurts, until his head pounds with pain and agony.

No one replies.

Tony sways unsteadily, exhausted and terrified, drained down to the very soul of himself, and he is about to let himself crumple and shatter, to let himself slip l to the floor again; This time, to not get up again—

Until –

Until there’s a loud crack, like a burst of static inside a sound box, and finally, _finally_ , a voice answers his pleas.

“ _Boss_?” A voice calls, loud and surprised, and both Tony and Nebula startle terribly, but where Nebula keeps her posture stiff and her hands ready to reach for her weapons, Tony’s entire body sags, and the feeling that bursts into him is so bright he can’t even recognize it. The relief floods him so intensely he feels he could cry, all warm affection and deep, intense comfort in knowing she’s still here, she’s survived, and he hasn’t lost her just yet.

(Not alone.)

She’s here.

His youngest – his _daughter._

She is still here.

“ _FRIDAY._ ” Tony exhales, so, so relieved, so glad he can feel himself shake with overwhelming emotion. His breath is stuttering, his back muscles actually hurt and pinch from exertion with each and every too-deep inhale, but he pays it no mind. His eyes go upward, unnecessarily, _lovingly_ ; And although it feels like too much, like something too intimate, to look _up_ for the second time in only a span of a few hours and feel so… _blessed_ , the symbolism of it too raw and too underserved – he allows himself to feel it, to feel so grateful about something in the middle of such despair, even if for just a little while.

Even if it doesn’t last.

If there is a voice, _any voice_ , that calls back when Tony screams, he will answer to that voice.

“Oh, thank God.” He breathes, because that’s all he can really say, that’s all that will demonstrate at least a small fraction of how deep his relief is. “FRIDAY, are you okay?”

“ _Boss._ I am _so glad_ you are back.” FRIDAY exclaims, and Tony is so stupidly sentimental over how worried and caring she sounds, how real she seems, and Tony is so starved for some support he almost wishes he’s made her a body, so he could _hug her._

“I know, _I know_. Don’t worry, Daddy’s back.” Tony says, nonsensically, as if he was really talking to a child. He wants to sound arrogant and confident, like himself, but it’s impossible as his hands twist nervously and he rubs them together to soothe the ache, to quench the need to touch, to save himself from the nerve-wracking sight of his trembling fingers. “I’m alright, I promise.”

“My scans say you’re injured.” FRIDAY points out, upset, even if she _is_ sounding slightly annoyed at Tony’s deflection.

“Nothing big, don’t worry.”

“It seems like you have been injured with a sharp object, like a spear, and it has hit your stomach and grazed your intestine – which caused internal bleeding and several other complications, including leakage of gastrointestinal fluids, which increases the chance of peritonitis. You apparently went through an aggressive surgery and should, _most likely_ , be in _bed rest_.”

True.

(But who cares?)

Tony’s not even mad she’s mad. He’s too mollified, too open, too raw to be mad.

“How can she tell?” Nebula interrupts with a hard frown on her face, making Tony startle a little as her hand reaches for him again, surprisingly soft, her touch almost silky despite the texture of her fingertips, hardened by wounds and battle.

Tony is himself surprised by how easily it is to let her do it, to allow her closer, with no questioning or hesitation.

Impossibly rattled by his own ease, the instinct to raise his guard so deep-seated he cannot hold it back – he attempts a smirk, something that he’s so used to wear he slips it on just like he slips on his suits, and by the way Nebula’s expression shifts into something aggravated, he thinks he succeeds at stalling her from crossing the threshold where she would see too much.

(Again.)

(Stalling her from crossing it _again._ )

“She knows me too well.”, he says, faking smugness, and he hopes his eyes, gleaming with unshed tears, or the soft choke on his voice don’t give away all the softness inside that is beating vulnerable and tender on his chest.

Nebula makes a huff so soft it’s almost inaudible and averts her gaze. It feels like it’s on purpose.

“This is your AI, then?” She asks curiously, looking up, following his cue.

“Yeah. Artificial Intelligence.” Tony explains quietly, only realizing after that he might have needed to do that, considering how _unsurprised_ Nebula seems by FRIDAY’s existence. He clears his throat softly, trying his best not to be so obvious about his sniff, and says, “FRIDAY, this is Nebula, but you can call her Avatar. Nebula, this is my girl, FRIDAY.”

Nebula frowns.

“You won’t call me anything.” She snarls a warning half-heartedly, merely annoyed, not murderous, and Tony takes that as a victory.

“As you’d prefer, Visitor.” FRIDAY replies all sugary sweet, sass and elegance, her vowels rolling supple and round, her cadence just like the incredible woman she’d been modeled after had been.

“Play nice.” Tony chastises with no real heat, blinking twice rapidly to dispel the awkward sensation that threatened to creep into his brain. “She’s a friend.”

There’s a beat of silence, tentative and fragile, and Tony waits for a protest or a snide remark that, surprisingly, never comes. It makes something funny unfurl inside his chest.

Tony twists a little to take a better look at Nebula, and something sharp stings him from the inside, and he wobbles in place. He takes in a hard, difficult breath, his body still not fully his own, and Nebula takes this as a sign she must push him forward and guide him inside with slow and soft steps, their shoes making muffled sounds against the cold floor, the vast emptiness of the hallways making them echo into nothingness.

There’s nothing broken in the Compound. The walls are up, the furniture arranged nicely and neatly, everything as it should be.

It’s cold. It makes Tony shiver.

“We need to close your wound.” Nebula says, voice low and pensive, carefully analyzing the stain of blood that has seeped into Tony’s shirt; Not big enough to be a concern, but still possibly dangerous. “Where is your medical equipment?”

“First aid down the hall.” Tony directs her with a gesture of his neck, indicating the way with a tilt of his head. “The lounge next to the workshop. Right cabinet, next to the bar.”

They barely walk three steps in that direction before FRIDAY chips in again. “Boss.”, she urgently calls. “Dum-E and U are in the lounge.”

Tony exclaims a baffled _what_ at the same time Nebula does, but while Nebula sounds deeply confused, Tony’s chest seizes with painful emotion, an almost childish hope, something that drags a soft gasp from his lips and makes his eyes widen to the point where they hurt.

“What kind of nonsense is she saying?” Nebula whispers to him, as if she is trying to keep FRIDAY from hearing her.

Tony can’t find in himself the words to tell her it’s useless, that FRIDAY can hear everything, because even before he can consider the possibility, FRIDAY continues to speak; “I’ve allowed them access to the upper floors after you’d been gone for over 48 hours, Boss.”, she admits, sounding almost a little embarrassed, her usually formal tone laced with a fragility Tony isn’t sure he consciously programmed there.

“And what’s your excuse?”, he teases, but his joke falls short. His hurried, stumbling steps and his breathless voice give away every single bit of the vulnerability that aches inside him, and no matter what he does, he can’t pull it back.

FRIDAY makes a pause, heavy and tentative, before answering softly, “They asked for it.”

Tony halts mid-step, his eyes snapping up incredulously – but before Nebula can process his faltering as a sign to stop, he speeds up, half-pulling her along, his eyes darting to every new corner he turns to, his entire being thrumming with a nervous, electric energy – something that drives him forward with his legs tingly, breath shallow, single-minded purpose to reach the lounge and nothing else.

When they step into the lounge entrance, big glass walls greet him invitingly and spacious, despite the sickly look of the sky outside, the cold light that filters in through the heavy clouds reflecting on the dark floors, and then—

“They’re here.” Tony breathes, softly, and shudders fragilely, to shatter silently from the inside.

Here they are. They are actually here. Right there, next to the sofas, right by the open doors that lead down to the workshop, U perfectly still while Dum-E turning side to side nonsensically to watch their own reflection in the cabinet’s glass door. By their feet – their wheels – there are a few tools, like a wrench and a screwdriver, that seem to have been taken directly from the workshop, possibly from Tony’s own personal set. They have no shame after all, the little idiots.

They look fine. They look like they always have.

On top of the center table, there is a broken broom, a white, dusty cloud of old foam, and a fire extinguisher.

They are fine. His weird, silly bots.

God and it’s so – so _stupid_ of him, so pathetic and sentimental, so incredibly ridiculous, but he can’t _help it._ Here he is, feeling emotional over these crappy pieces of tech, his bots, his _children_ , made of metals and wires and circuits – never, at any moment, to be threatened by Thanos’ intentions –, yet… Yet he feels so overwhelmed just by seeing them here, to know that they have been _waiting for him_ , that they have asked to come up because they… because they have been worried.

How did they ask? He doesn’t even know how.

They don’t form directives of their own. They don’t speak. They’re not even equipped to form a logical string of words by themselves, only to recognize and to respond – affirm, deny, or realize task.

(That’s not true.)

They understand sentences, but… But to _ask_ —

“How did they get here?” Tony asks, his chest constricting, a small but telling thought forming at the back of his head; but he doesn’t want to let it grow, not yet, not before he gets an answer.

“Using the elevator.” FRIDAY replies, cool and sweet, soft, and Tony knows she can detect the way his heart his racing, can see the flow of the neurotransmitters from the biomarkers implanted on him, probably being able to name Tony’s current emotions much better than Tony himself can. And even still – or, maybe, _because of it_ –, she adds, “I guided them through the correct path.”

Ah.

 _(There it is._ )

All of them.

(His weird, silly kids.)

All of them are in on this. Dum-E, U, and _FRIDAY._

As Tony walks towards them, leaving the secure embrace on Nebula’s arms when he finds her stiff and still on her feet, his eyes run along the bots’ form paranoidly, looking for scratches or cracks, for _wounds_ that would have no reason to be there, but he does it all the same. He won’t find anything, nothing other than the mess they might’ve made of themselves in his absence, but Tony worries all the same. Tony _fears_ all the same.

Tony steps right into the foam of the fire extinguisher in his haste, thoughtlessly, and the layer of it is so thick he doesn’t realize he’s about to stub his toe on the foot of the center table up until he does. He hisses and lets out a muttered _shit_ at the pain that bursts into his foot, unconsciously bending over to soothe it with his hands until a sharp twinge on his torso and the painful creaking on his knees stop him still, awkwardly balancing himself with his arms open in the air, like a crazy drunk trying to stand on his feet while walking a straight line.

The movement belatedly calls U’s attention, who turns his claw slowly in Tony’s direction, only to rise suddenly, like an excited puppy raising its head, and the high-pitched sound his pistons give when he does it seems like a gasp; That stops Dum-E’s little dance in front on his own reflection and also makes him turn, and then he _also_ makes a noise.

They look like they could jump in elation.

(No, they don’t.)

(Robots don’t jump, Tony, don’t be silly.)

But they _do_ look happy. They do. It makes Tony feel like he’s made of jelly, like he is going to dissolve just like the foam he’s stepping into.

They make sounds. Sounds of depressurization and recalibration, hydraulics as smooth as always, sounds of wheels tumbling clumsily and beeps and whirrs that feel too much like words. They wheel closer, _excited_ , and Tony can’t _help_ the way his hands shake as he raises them to pet his stupid creations, the metal cool and covered in a sheen layer of dust when he touches it, particles so thin they are as soft as baby powder, and Tony rubs it between his fingers, confusedly.

When he takes off the excess, he can see his own reflection in U’s arm, distorted by its circumference and material, but even then, Tony realizes he looks like _shit._

His goatee is a mess, unkept and dirty, with a disgusting shine to it as his face turned more and more greasy as the days went by and he never showered. There’s still a faint tinge of red in his lips and teeth, his left cheek is swollen, and he has dried blood on his temples.

The bags under his eyes are so deep they look black against his pale skin.

A dead man walking.

(Of course.)

( **Death wouldn’t come for him when he called**.)

Tony is still for a second too long, frozen and distant, and Dum-E makes an inquiring noise, turning his claw at him.

Tony looks at him, surprised, and his interior feels too soft, too squishy and too mushy, so he pushes all thought aside in favor of showering his bots with attention, all he can spare, because it’ll keep the ugly thought from coming too close when he is too raw. Just for a little longer. He wants to be this, unguarded and open, grateful, even though he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, just a little longer.

The possibility of losing the bots by Thanos’ hands had never been real, he knows this. They hadn’t been under any sort of danger, like everyone else had.

(But he’s already lost a kid.)

(He can’t help but hold to the others as tightly as he can.)

Tony runs his hand over Dum-E’s and U’s arms unconsciously, feeling the cool touch of the metal beneath his fingertips, pretending the feel of the smoothness of the polished plates isn’t ruined by the scratches and cuts on his palms. He’s so distracted by it he almost misses the sound of boots stepping closer, going around the foam he recklessly stepped into on his haste, slow like a predator circling its’ prey.

But it is no predator.

( _There is no threat_.)

Nebula is looking at him flabbergasted, her eyes wide and confused, questions swirling inside the dark infinity of her gaze, as if Tony is a puzzle she cannot figure out. She looks at him, at his hand laid on top of Dum-E for a very, very long time, until she says:

“You created them.”

And her words are small, but her eyes are fervent.

Tony nods, his lips twisting and twitching uncomfortably, averting his gaze, all attempts of finding an adequate response completely failing him. “Sure did.”, is what he says, and he knows this is no response at all, not for what Nebula is _truly_ asking him, but that is all Tony can do right now. “This is U, and this is Dum-E.”, he introduces, patting them as he says their names, and they both make a whirring sound at being called, their mechanical pincers twitching and moving frantically, emulating the feeling of _life_ so thoroughly that Tony can’t resist going back to caressing them as soon as he finishes talking.

Nebula stares, intense and unashamed, something… _complicated_ clouding her expression. “And they respond to you. They… _missed_ you.”

They _did._

(And that’s so – that’s so weird, that Tony is so mushy over some stupid bots, even if they are _his_ stupid bots—)

(They missed him and only Tony would be foolish enough to program _feelings_ into his machines so they would _miss him_ —)

“They’re just whiny and needy. Can’t leave them alone too long or else they chew the furniture.”

But Nebula is not buying it. Tony can see she’s not.

It’s uncomfortable, to be under Nebulas sharp, unwavering gaze, as she unravels him with the same precision she used to unravel his nanite compartment, probably. He almost wants to ask her “ _what?_ ”, just to see what she will say, to see if she will give any hint to what exactly is going on in that head of hers that has her looking at Tony like he is the freakiest thing she has ever seen. And Nebula has seen a lot, he can tell. If Tony somehow managed to fall into the category of things that make Nebula speechless, Tony can’t imagine that whatever she is thinking about him is something good.

Oh.

( _Wait._ )

Oh, shit. Is she _offended_ by this?

Shit, fuck, Tony hadn’t thought about that. _Android_ , for fuck's sake. Android person, literally standing right there, as Tony talks with his robot voice and pets his robot children and announces, with everything but his words, that he is their _owner._

Holy fuck, that might actually be an offensive thing he just did. Bringing Nebula here, to his home, where all his other machines are? Oh, fuck, Tony hadn’t thought about it like that. Is Nebula offended by the idea that Tony might be interested in her as a machine? I mean – he _is_ , don’t get him wrong, he’s not doing in on _purpose_ , be he is an engineer and he is fascinated with marvelous tech, whatever origin that tech might have –, but Tony is not trying to make Nebula into one of _his’._ He has already said he isn’t.

Not _out loud,_ yeah, but it’s the _intention_ of it the counts! Or the lack of intention, or whatever. What matters is that he _wouldn’t!_

Tony didn’t bring her here for this. She knows that, right? This, Dum-E and U, this is a coincidence. Tony’s not taking Nebula in like a stray kitten or anything like that, like he’s adopting her or something, because he knows Nebula would _kill_ him if he suggested anything of the sort.

Tony would never do that. He would never lure someone close just to dismantle them, to pick them apart, to keep them for his amusement. Tony would never.

He would _never_.

He is stumbling down in a spiral of anxiety and nervousness when he opens his mouth – which is _not_ the best moment to try and justify yourself to the angry assassin android lady, _ever_ , but it has to be now before she cuts his head off –, but Nebula beats him to the punch and, very calmly, says:

“Hey. U.” Nebula calls, imposingly, and all three of them startle at her before Tony realizes she’s not talking to _him_ , but to U, the _bot._

U realizes it as well, but is confused, like the silly, slow little bot he _is_ , and he tilts to the side and makes a sound that implies a question, facing Nebula almost as if he were truly looking at her.

“You know where the medical kit is?” Nebula asks, and as Tony gapes a little, U makes a chirp of agreement, high and excited, and Nebula nods at him. “Bring it to me.”

“And you. Dum-E.” Nebula calls, testing the name the same way she had tested the word _hospital_ , the word foreign on her tongue, syllables heavy and careful. “Bring him here.”

Tony is still blinking owlishly when Dum-E pinches his blood-stained shirt with amazing precision, more than he has ever displayed in all of his clumsy, twitchy years – and he wheels down in Nebula’s direction slowly, taking Tony with him with faltering steps, until they are close enough so Nebula can pull Tony and spin him around so he can sit on a sofa, his body moving mechanically through the motions.

“Can you find him some water?” Nebula asks quietly to Dum-E as Tony sits down as ordered, looking at him expectantly.

It’s like Tony stepped into an alternate reality or something.

(What the hell is going on?)

Dum-E also makes a noise, shriller and scratchier than U, and turns around ungracefully to follow Nebula’s request as she crouches in front of Tony, pushing his shoulders back so he can straighten his spine and she can open his ruined shirt.

Tony continues to gape at her, and she continues to ignore him. Tony is already bare-chested again when he finds his words, Nebula working around the bandages with a meticulous touch, trying to peek inside without removing them first.

“They listen to you.” Tony idiotically says, surprised.

“They don’t listen to you?” Nebula frowns, disbelieving, if not a little sarcastic, still not looking up at him.

“Not like _that._ ” He unhelpfully answers, his brows twitching in confusion, and with a huff, Nebula ignores him in favor of slowly taking off his bandages without aggravating his wounds.

Tony lets her do it, silent. He raises his arms diligently when Nebula leans closer to his sides and unravels the pieces of cloth around his flank, breathing deeply and trying his best not to twist too far and screw up any more of his stitches. He tries not to wince when the bandages get stuck to a stray, crooked stitch, and Nebula kindly pretends she cannot hear him as he fails to do so. Eventually, U returns, med kit in hand – _claw_ –, and Nebula takes it from him silently as the bot wheels away to give her room.

When he has no other order to complete, U usually finds something to occupy himself with, something to grab and examine, just as Dum-E always does.

Right now, he wheels back, and stays still. Behind Tony.

He stands vigil, and he doesn’t move.

“You give them life.” Nebula whispers, and Tony is so surprised that he twitches under her fingers, his eyes widening and turning down to look for hers immediately, but she doesn’t look back.

Nebula keeps wrapping him up, her gaze focused on Tony’s wound, avoiding his eyes.

( _Shit._ )

“Well.” Tony starts, then stops. And when he does it, he realizes he doesn’t know what he had been about to say, not really, so he concludes with: “Something like that.”

And the moment grows heavy between them, too heavy for words, so they say nothing – But Nebula’s hands are amicable on his wound. Careful. There is no wrath in them.

Tony takes that as an answer, and lets it be enough.

She helps him wrap new bandages across his torso, once they have cleaned the blood and fixed a torn stitching. Nebula also checks his knees because of his fall, prodding at them gently, and the hiss Tony gives is sharp and pained despite her careful touch, the skin bruised and tender; But nothing seems broken or dislocated. Just sore, like all the rest of him. Just another bruise. Just another cut. Just another wound.

Tony asks her about her shoulder, but she brushes him off – and he would laugh at it, if he had the strength to do so.

Dum-E does find his way back to them, and, shockingly, he has also done exactly what Nebula has asked him to do. He brings Tony a water bottle, taken from the mini-bar, and the bottle is still intact except for a tiny indentation from Dum-E’s a little too tight grip. Tony doesn’t know if the same can be said from the mini-bar – but it probably can’t – but he doesn’t mind. He takes the bottle with a slight, faint smile at the corner of his lips, an emotion frail and humble, something bittersweet; and he says _Thanks, buddy._

He sounds distressed.

(It’s okay. Ignore it.)

(Don’t think about it.)

(It’s just a water bottle.)

(Shut up and drink it.)

Tony opens the bottle and brings it to his lips, his first sip of water in _days_ , and it tastes like affection.

( **Don’t you _fucking_ cry over a water bottle.**)

(Get up.)

( **Drink it**.)

Nebula stands up smoothly, snapping Tony from his turbulent thoughts, and he directs his attention to her only to find her stone-faced, her expression giving away nothing of what passes inside. Tony kind of wants to ask, wants to see if he can help her, if he could offer anything in return for all the silent kindness she has given him.

But he doesn’t know how to say it. He doesn’t even know if Nebula would want it.

So he says nothing.

“Does it hurt?” Nebula asks, referring to his wound.

(Yes.)

(It does.)

“No.” Tony says, touching his bandages gently. “Feels uncomfortable, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“They said it would take time to heal.” Nebula comments, and Tony is confused for a fraction of a second until he realizes she means the _doctors_ that operated on him. “Hard surgery. Bad wound. You might never be the same. Your body can’t heal like it was before.”

And then, she raises her gaze at him, piercing and incredibly telling.

“But that’s not a problem for you, is it?”

And Tony has nothing to say to that, nothing that will properly express the absolute mess that is bubbling inside him, a cauldron of hot, boiling feelings, and he twists his lips to avoid a whimper from clawing its way out, resisting, with all his might, the instinct to raise his arms and block her vision from his chest, from the compartment glowing bright blue in his heart, even though the thing he _truly_ wants to hide is not even in sight.

(She knows.)

(She _saw._ )

But it can’t be. There is no way she could have seen. His wound was not so high, and Tony’s chest, despite all that happened in the fight, came out only bruised, not cut or exposed—

(But she knows.)

— But she knows what Tony is hiding, beneath his skin.

For a second, he stares at her, a mix between scared and daring, not truly jutting his chin out in defiance but very nearly doing so. If Tony had the option, he would retreat, turn his back to her with a charming smile and an annoying one-liner, to push her away in the most effective and quick manner, but Nebula has already seen _too much._ In too little time. This is what happens, he supposes, when you survive the _end of the world._ You have no barriers left. Everything you had holding yourself together, it crumbles down along the rest of your world, turning into a pile of broken pieces at your feet.

He wonders if she felt it, when she touched his torso.

He wonders if that changes what she thinks of him.

Nebula never rises to the unspoken challenge. She merely stares back, stares until Tony’s eyes are getting tired from the unnecessary strain, dry and swollen, and after an embarrassing amount of time, he averts his gaze and takes in a large gulp of breath, retreating.

(She won’t say anything.)

Maybe she won’t. Not like she has anyone to tell to, anyway. And it’s not like it’s important. Because it’s not. Tony has never told anyone because it’s no big deal. It’s just something he had to do, to make sure the nanotech would work fine, attached to his entire body. It’s not – He’s not in _danger._ No one did this to him. He did this to himself, and he knows what he is doing, and it’s _fine._

Nebula probably understands better than most, actually. She must, from the way she just figured out how the Arc Reactor worked and basically saved Tony’s life a few days ago. She… she knows. She certainly knows what it feels like.

From the way her eyes look sad when her gaze flickers in the direction of the bright blue light in Tony’s chest, Tony is _sure_ she does.

Tony should probably be counting himself lucky that Nebula was the one to figure out, not anybody else. Not –

(Pepper.)

His palms start to sweat, his throat turning suddenly desert-dry again, airways closing in a sudden snap of fear, and he has to close his eyes and force his body not to lock up before he descends into panic again, every single breath a struggle so tiring he feels like he’s much, much older than he truly is.

“Okay. No use delaying this anymore, is there?” Tony mumbles, grinding his teeth together painfully for a second, swallowing around nothing and feeling the sticky, disgusting sensation of his blood-stained teeth still unbrushed for days, the bad taste on his tongue.

He wants to keep his mouth shut. He doesn’t want to say the words he is about to say.

(But he has to.)

“FRIDAY.” Tony calls. “Give me a run-down.”

“Stark—” Nebula says in a warning, reluctant and small, but he interrupts her.

“It’s ok.” Tony says, even when he knows Nebula won’t believe him, but he has to silence her and let FRIDAY speak, or else he will lose the courage. “I can take it.”

Nebula looks at him like he is a liar, and he is.

But the time for Tony to worry about himself is long, long past. Years too late, in fact.

(I don’t care if it kills me.)

(I don’t care what happens to me.)

He simply needs to _know._

“FRI, report. Who is…”, and he chokes, he chokes anyway, the words too big to pass through his throat comfortably, too heavy and poisonous, sharp and shattered and scratching him from the inside out. “Who made it?”, he asks and fears the answer.

(Where are they?)

(Are they _alive?_ )

( **Please, tell him he’s not the only one.** )

FRIDAY makes a pause – and it barely lasts a second, but Tony almost tells her to _hurry up_ , because he can’t _take this._ He can’t take the waiting, the hesitation, he has to know or else he will never find the strength again. It doesn’t matter. He will never be ready, it’ll never be the right time, he has to hear it _now_ or else it will destroy him.

“Miss Potts and Colonel Rhodes are alive, Boss.”

And that’s a punch in the gut right away, like being stabbed all over again. His heart stutters a painful beat, like it’s exploding suddenly, the shards of it entering his lungs the same way the shrapnel had cut through him in Afghanistan. Tony can’t _breathe._ The Arc Reactor is long gone but he can’t breathe, the air is not reaching his chest, and he heaves and gasps helplessly as all rational thought leaves him and all he is left with is a piercing, heart-wrenching cry of relief.

From the way Nebula immediately reaches for him, the jolt he thinks he gives is not only on his mind, but shakes his entire body, like a sharp shock bursting inside him. He almost asks her to repeat it, because _it can’t be,_ oh _God_ , _is that true!?—_ when FRIDAY simply keeps going.

“I can still trace Miss Potts’ phone signal through my private server. I have detected twenty-four phone calls after the moment of the fall of the population, all made from the same phone. It is unlikely that someone else would have used the phone, considering that eight of those calls were made to _your_ phone, Boss.”

“ _Call her back._ ”

“Stark—!” Nebula does grasp his shoulders tightly then, stopping him from rising to his feet too fast, keeping him firmly planted on the sofa.

“I’m not— _I have to call her back._ ” Tony exclaims between tight lips, the words strangled between his teeth, fighting against Nebula’s hands.

“Full report.” Nebula hisses back, her jaw just as tight, and Tony very nearly tells her to fuck off when FRIDAY keeps talking over them both, ignoring their dispute.

“Calling Miss Potts, Boss.”

And almost immediately, what answers from the other side of the line is—

“ _Tony!?”_

Her voice.

(Alive.)

Tony can hear his blood roaring in his ears, loud and chaotic, deafening, and past it all he exhales shakily, nearly a sob, and answers her back.

“ _Pep._ ” He exclaims, desperate, and he sounds like he is dying. “Pep, _honey._ Pepper.”

“Tony, _oh my God!_ ” Pepper screams back, ragged and distraught, her voice cracking over the speakers after a gasp so deep it sounded like it hurt. Tony can hear her close to the mouthpiece, her hitched breaths, her _fear_ , and Tony aches with it so deeply he nearly falls over. “I thought— _Tony._ Tony, _oh my God, where are you!?_ ”

But it’s hard, it’s hard to talk, it’s hard to _listen_ past all the despair and the hurrying and the fretting, because Tony asks her “Where are you!? Are you okay!?” at the same time, they both equally terrified, and it is a long, panicked moment before either of them can stop to even think, let alone stop for long enough for the other to speak.

Suddenly, a wall places itself in front of him; Tall, secure, and _blue._

“ _Breathe.”_ Nebula commands him in a low voice, holding by his shoulders and leaning down to look at his eyes, drilling the order into his mind with her unrelenting stare.

Tony blinks rapidly when faced with the darkness inside her eyes, the constellations lost in them flashing before him in a second, and he stops, just as Pepper stops as well, and they both struggle to regain air fast, both too eager to speak, too despaired to let silence grow again and deceive them with the idea the other is gone.

Tony regains his bearings first, because Nebula’s cold hands keep him grounded. As Pepper wheezes and struggles to regain breath, Tony looks up and finds Nebula’s eyes upon him, hard as steel, and the strength in them, that has not wavered a single inch since she helped him rise from Titan’s soil days ago, helps him finds footing of his own.

(Breathe.)

(No threat.)

( _Together_.)

He nods at her, still a little out of sorts, but Nebula, without breaking her strong gaze, nods back, and Tony gulps to halt any more frenzied words that try to leave his mouth, and forces them to sound calm as he speaks again.

“Where are you?” Tony asks Pepper, raising his head a little so he can speak in the direction of the speakers on the ceiling. “Are you safe?”

“I’m at Mount Sinai.” Pepper replies, still shaky.

(A _hospital?_ )

“Are you alright!?” Tony inquires nervously, holding himself tightly on the sofa’s cushions with fear. “Pep!?”

“I’m alright, Tony, I’m okay!” Pepper assures, hastily. “I’m not hurt.”

“Why are you in a hospital if you’re not hurt!?”

“I’m helping anyone who _is._ ” She growls fiercely, and Nebula throws a glance at him, his expression betraying a hint of curiosity at Pepper’s callous tone.

But Tony is not paying attention to it.

“Tony, there’s… There’s _so many people_ here.” Pepper exhales, crushed, and the tears that threaten to fall are obvious even through the call, because he can hear her voice crack at the edges and the wetness garbling her speech. “Even after— What _happened?_ _Where were you? What is going on?_ ”

(Where were you?)

( **Where were you, Tony?** )

The voice at the back of Tony’s head is all-consuming, evil and malicious, and it threatens to swallow him whole.

It sounds like _Thanos._

“Is Happy with you?” Tony urgently asks, throwing darks thoughts aside the best he can, even if it’s not much help at all. Now is not the time for self-pity. Now is not the time to sit down and cry about his own ridiculous fallings. He needs to know what happened. He needs to know how deep the cut is, how hard the blow.

How heavy the loss.

“No.” Pepper sobs. “I don’t know where he is. I can’t reach him. He just—”

(Gone.)

(He’s just _gone._ )

_Fuck._

**_Fuck._ **

“I have to find her.” Tony whispers to Nebula, his voice too soft for the speakers to pick up, his panic hidden from Pepper’s ears by his hushed tone. “I have to bring her here.”

“You are _wounded_.” Nebula growls back, equally hushed, and pushes Tony down by his shoulders when he attempts to get up. “If you don’t stop running around you _will_ bleed to death.”

“I can’t leave her there alone!” Tony hisses, infuriated. “She’s still alive, she’s _still here_ , and I’ll not sit here while she’s alone in whatever shithole Thanos has left behind for us.”

“And what of the others you want to find?” Nebula reminds him firmly. “While you leave to save one, others might be _hurting_.”

 _Fuck._ She’s got a point. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

(Think, Tony.)

 _(Think!_ )

“Okay.” Tony says loudly after a beat passes, and— _no, it’s not okay, fuck, it’s not, but what else can he do!?_ “Okay. Pep, honey, listen to me. Can you make it back to the Compound?”

“The _Compound?_ ” Pepper exclaims, agitated. “ _Tony—”_

“Honey, please.” He begs, his body pushing forward against Nebula’s hands, unconsciously, trying to reach closer so Pepper can feel him, even though it’s futile. “I still need to look for whoever is left. I can’t do that from anywhere else. I need FRIDAY to help me.”

“I have no way of getting there.” Pepper reminds him, harshly. “Every single road is blocked! I’ve been in this area for days, no one can leave. I can’t walk all the way back to the Compound.”

Without even thinking about it, Tony finds a solution to that. “FRIDAY. Release 1-R.”

“Will do.”, is the only interruption FRIDAY gives, before falling silent once more.

Pepper, on the other side of the call, makes a distressed noise. “What’s 1-R? Tony?”

“I’m picking you up— FRIDAY is picking you up, ok?” Tony unhelpfully explains. “She’ll be there in…”

“11 minutes, Boss.” FRIDAY informs.

“11 minutes.” Tony repeats, dumbly. “If you just sit tight and wait a little longer, FRIDAY will get there and make sure you’re safe, alright? She’ll bring you here. She’ll—” and he gesticulates like a madman, into nothing, despite the fact she cannot see him through a mere voice call. Tony lets out a deep breath, that comes off broken and exhausted, stuttering inside his throat as it comes free, trembling just like the rest of him, and it barely does anything to calm him down at all.

But he must pretend. He can’t break down now.

(Not yet.)

“It’ll be fine.” He assures Pepper, and prays it is enough for now.

Pepper stays silent for a long minute, until she says, in a rush of breath of her own:

“Okay. Alright. Okay. I’ll… I’ll see you soon.”, and just as she does, someone speaks, on her side of the call, and Pepper lets out a sound close to the speaker that is too distressed for Tony not to immediately become alert.

“Pep, is everything alright?”

“It’s okay, I’m okay.” Pepper assures, distractedly. “It’s just— There’s a lot of people here, Tony, and there’s a woman that needs my help.”

“What’s going on?” Tony insists.

“Tony, I gotta go, I gotta—”, something falling, and a _cry_. “I’m in the middle of something. But you’ll come, right? You’ll pick me up?”

“FRIDAY is almost there.” Tony affirms with full confidence, even though he’s not sure if that’s actually true. “Just hold on. She’ll be right there.”

Pepper agrees but doesn’t hang up. Neither does Tony. The moment lingers, because they don’t _want to_ hang up, they don’t want to, but there is a rising of sound on Pepper’s side of the line and she sounds like someone is speaking close to her, trying to gather attention. Tony can hear the movement as Pepper pulls her phone away to give a reply to someone, something about _food_ , and about a _boy_ , and Pepper is muttering hasty agreements and moving swiftly, the rustle of her clothes audible even over the call.

Tony is going to hang up. He is. But before he does, Pepper says one last thing.

“Tony?”, she calls, hesitantly.

And Tony wants to answer back with soft, hopeful words, wants to offer comfort and call her pet names, wants to feign normalcy because all else he can provide her is _useless_ , she beats him to it with the cruelest of questions.

“Who else is left?”

(Who else is left?)

(How many are _gone_?)

Tony chokes on air, and admits, “I don’t know.”

And when the call ends, it feels like failure.

Nebula crosses her arms, a gesture that seems more uncomfortable than aggressive, and mumbles, as Tony sits miserably in front of her, head in his hands, breath shallow and heart unsteady. “That is why I said _full report._ ”

Tony shakes his head. “I had to talk to her.”

“Was that really a good idea?”

“It was the only one I had.” He shrugs one shoulder, and offers no more explanation, because he has none to give.

Tony isn’t really thinking anymore. Not for full moments. The nagging pain in his left arm is starting to make itself known, the stress of being alert and deflating, over and over, his heart speeding with adrenaline in so many alternate spikes over such a short span of time a strain too great for his battered body. He digs his fingers into his eyes, wishing he could just wipe away the exhaustion and strain off them, wishing he could go to sleep and let this all be a nightmare.

He’d take nightmares, now. He’d take anything.

Pepper is alive. God, she is alive, and that is – Tony can’t believe how fucking grateful he is for it. She’s alive. He should be happy. He should feel his heart a little lighter, but it doesn’t happen.

Because there are others. There are so many others, and what does it matter if one of the people Tony loves is still here?

(He still lost.)

(Will Pepper still love him, when she realizes what he has done?)

(How useless he is?)

(Will she still recognize him, when she sees him?)

Nebula doesn’t say anything to his lousy reply. The silence stretches too far, for too long, and it feels like an eternity after FRIDAY finally picks up again and says, in a quiet voice, “Shall I continue with the report, Boss?”

Tony sniffs, feeling his nose uncomfortably runny and his eyes stinging, and yet he says “Yes.”, because he has no other choice.

(Get up.)

(Get on the ship.)

( _Breathe._ )

(Report.)

“What about Rhodey? Where is he?” he asks, worriedly. “Is he alright?”

“Colonel Rhodes is not at the Compound, but he is alive.” FRIDAY informs plainly. “I have access to the War Machine suit, including audio comm and video surveillance, and the suit is still working. I can also hear Colonel Rhodes’ voice through the audio channel. He is alive.”

“Oh, thank God.” Tony exhales, but doesn’t allow his body any more time to deflate again. “Who else? The Compound is empty, where is everyone?”

“Evacuation protocol ensured all were removed from the premises within the hour of the attack, Boss. The only ones left after were Colonel Rhodes and Doctor Banner.”

“ _Bruce?_ ” Tony splutters. “Is Bruce with Rhodey?”

FRIDAY makes a strange, very calculated pause, before replying. “Yes. Doctor Banner has accompanied Colonel Rhodes when he left. According to the Hulkbuster armor, Doctor Banner was injured, but he is alive.”

The _Hulkbuster._ They took the Hulkbuster. Shit.

(And yet.)

(And yet—!)

“Where are they?” Tony asks with a frown, his brows drawn close together in deep concern. “Are they still in New York?”

“No. According to the last available data, Both Dr. Banner and Colonel Rhodes were in Wakanda at the moment of the attack.”

_Wakanda._

(Oh.)

(Of _course._ )

Tony wishes he could say he is surprised, but he truly, _truly_ isn’t.

( _Not now, Tony._ )

Nebula frowns at his lack of reaction, and shrugs at him. “Is that important?”

And it is, _to him_ , and Tony has no idea how he should explain it to her. He’s not even sure if he _should._ It doesn’t matter. Not now. It shouldn’t matter, and yet, here he is, hesitating over a simple implication, not even a confirmation of his suspicions. It means nothing.

But because Tony is _Tony_ , and he can’t fucking _help himself_ , he asks FRIDAY:

“Has anyone else been to the Compound while I was out?”

FRIDAY knows _exactly_ what he is asking, and that is why she hesitates before replying. “Captain Rogers has, Boss.”, she says, carefully. “So did the Black Widow, the Falcon, the Scarlet Witch and Vision.”

Of course.

(Not right now.)

(Please, don’t do this now.)

Now is not the time.

He knows that. Past the haze of… of _something_ that clouds his thoughts, thick and heavy, like the fog that slithers between the buildings outside, he knows he is being nonsensical. But that realization only comes a fraction too late, after the instinctive, nearly malicious thought has already manifested in his brain, a quick blink of bitterness, of something dark and painful he has been pushing down for _years_ now.

(Of course they were here.)

(Of course.)

“When?” Tony inquires, half-heartedly.

“A few hours after your disappearance.” FRIDAY says, “They interrupted a video conference between Colonel Rhodes and Secretary Ross, and soon after, Colonel Rhodes suited up and followed them to Wakanda.”

Tony lets out a terrible, terrible laugh, scratchy and sour, that hurts his chest as it comes out. “Oh, _great._ That is just— That’s just _incredible_ , isn’t it?”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Tony sees Nebula shoot him a glance as if he has just lost his mind.

Maybe he has. Who knows?

(Not now, Tony.)

He gulps dryly, shaking his head minutely to disperse his sour thoughts, and then mumbles, “Are they alive? Can you tell me if they are alive?”

“Are you sure, Boss?” FRIDAY asks.

“If they’re gone, they’re _gone_ , FRIDAY.” Tony bites, and then immediately regrets and backs down. “I just— I need to know.”

As FRIDAY gathers herself to say the news, Tony hangs his head, his neck tired and achy from too long without proper rest, and the stretch of his tendons on his nape make his entire spine light up in tight pain as his head lulls forward. Still, he endures it, and doesn’t raise his head. It’s too heavy.

He offers his nape like a condemned offers theirs to execution. Just waiting for the blade to come down and cut them off from life.

All he has to do is wait.

As the blade comes down, _cutting._

“The Falcon and the Scarlet Witch. They are both gone.” FRIDAY says, in a mournful tone. “So is king T’Challa.”

Tony closes his eyes, with all his strength, until it hurts.

(A blade on his neck.)

(Cutting _deep._ )

Christ, _T’Challa, no._

“And Vision.” Tony murmurs, sullen. “Because Thanos got the stone, hasn’t he?”

FRIDAY confirms, quietly, as if she is mourning that particular loss much more personally than she should.

“Anyone else?” Tony insists, even though he doesn’t want to hear it.

“Yes.” FRIDAY says, automatically, but then her tone turns regretful, because she _knows_ how Tony will receive the following news, and says, “It appears that James Buchanan Barnes has disappeared as well, Boss.”

The white noise that fills Tony’s ears is _loud_ , a high-pitched, monotone screech, like a flatlining heart monitor, and he stares at nothing with his eyes hazy, wide and shocked, and his heart beating a tattoo against his Reactor, hot against cold, absolute dread pouring in him like a flood.

(Barnes is dead.)

(Barnes is—)

( _Fuck._ )

His left arm is shaking. It’s shaking so bad it hurts, it truly _hurts_ , the pain blooming in his chest and bleeding towards the limb, like motor oil leaking through the tubes, and he holds it with his other hand, grip painfully tight, until his fingers turn pale.

“The others?” He asks, pained.

“Alive, Boss.” FRIDAY says, in a low tone. “They’re alive.”

Tony lets out a shuddering sigh, running his hand over his mouth and chin in an effort to keep himself silent, the pressure on his lips as a reminder to keep them closed. He feels a hand touch his shoulder, a brief, fleeting comfort, awkward and uncertain, but _present._

 _I’m here. I’m sorry_ , Nebula says, with no words.

Without looking at her, slightly too conscious of the way he leans into her touch, Tony calls:

“FRI.” Tony says, lowly, “Call Rhodes.”

FRIDAY says no word in compliance, but her silence is confirmation enough – and Tony waits for the call to connect with such anxiousness and adrenaline he can barely stay still. There is no ringing tone, because no AI of Tony’s would ever _ring_ , even if the silence now feels even more dreadful than it ever did before. Tony can count the beats of his heart while he waits, the strong, pounding rhythm inside him, the bead of sweat that’s tricking down his spine, from the stress, from the rush, and he feels more and more sick with each passing moment.

This one takes a long time. The quiet is so profound that when the call finally connects, the amount of _noise_ that comes from the other side is scary and surprising, full of loud voices and strange sounds, until one voice resounds louder than all others around it.

“—what the hell--!”

But that voice, Tony would recognize anywhere. “Rhodey?”

A gasp, a splutter, and then, finally, a reply.

“ _Tony?_ ”

“Rhodey!” Tony exclaims, buzzing with restless energy.

“Tony, you— Tony! _Tony!_ ” Rhodey exclaims, winded. “Oh, you son of a bitch, you— You’re _alive_ , _Tony_.”

The absolute exasperation in Rhodey’s voice, the same raw, uncontainable fear Tony feels inside himself – the confusing mix between elation and dread, between relief and painful realization, Tony can hear it in Rhodey’s voice and much as he can feel it in himself, and he can’t help but the way it makes him remember of _next time, you ride with me_ , and the otherworldly feelings that come attached to it. Feelings that surpass his ability to describe them, feelings that still make him feel like his stomach is collapsing into itself when he thinks about it for far too long, his gut tight and overwhelmed, make him feel helpless and small and so, so lonely, and Rhodey’s presence seems like a beacon of light that reflects all the way from a distant past, from a mirror of a horror Tony never truly left behind, to guide him home.

It makes him feel almost dizzy. It makes him feel childish.

(He wishes Rhodey was here.)

“Can’t kill me that easily, sour-patch.” Tony jokes, and if he sounds like he is about to cry, that’s because he _is._

“Where are you?” Rhodey presses, completely undeterred by Tony’s dark humor. “Tell me right now, I’ll come to you, _immediately_ , Tony. Is Pepper—?”

“Pepper’s ok.” Tony says, hiding his sniffle behind a swipe of his hand over his itchy nose. “She’s on her way to the Compound. She’s ok. She didn’t—”

_Vanish._

(Like the kid.)

( _Peter_.)

“What about Happy?” Rhodey asks, frantic.

Tony’s silence is answer enough.

“ _Shit.”_ Rhodey hisses. “Shit, _shit—_ Okay, Tony, _don’t move,_ do you hear me? You _don’t move_ , I’m coming to get you, you and Pepper, so you stay still and don’t _do anything. Are you hurt?_ ”

If he’s hurt?

(Yes.)

(He is.)

“No.” Tony answers. “Not at the moment.”

“Not at the— _For fuck’s sake, **Tony.**_ ” Rhodey growls, verging on hysterical. “Do you need to go to a hospital!?”

“Been to a hospital.” Tony says, and it’s not even a lie. “I’ll live.”

“Okay, _good._ ” Rhodey huffs. “So stay there, stay _still_ , and I’m coming to get you. Bruce is with me, he’s okay, and we’re coming to get you, alright?”

Tony mumbles an affirmative, and leaves it at that. He doesn’t ask who else is left. He doesn’t have to.

But Rhodey doesn’t tell him either.

While Rhodey is still on the line, Tony glances over at Nebula for a brief second before making an impulsive decision and saying, “Please don’t come in guns blazing. I have a friend over.”

“A _friend?_ ” Rhodey exclaims, toeing the line between furious and confused, but the sounds of the armor moving around the other side of the line is all Tony cares about.

“Yeah.” Tony replies, “Nebula. Real firecracker. Might try to bite you, but I promise she’s nice.”

Rhodey is talking to someone on the other side, hushed tones full of anxiety, as Nebula turns to him with a gaze so acid it makes him taste it at the back of his tongue. Tony almost shrugs at her, coy, but he’s not quite managing to pull the right expression off.

Rhodey interrupts their silent conversation with the oddest question ever.

“Friends of the raccoon?”

“The _raccoon_?” Nebula asks, flabbergasted, and almost a little offended – and Tony can’t really judge her, because it also doesn’t make any sense to him, but then, she asks, “He’s _here?_ ”

And the day just gets more and more bizarre.

“Yeah, apparently she is.” Tony says into the speaker, even though Nebula spoke far too loud, so Rhodey definitely heard her himself. “So no shooting the blue android when you get here.”

There’s a sigh, deep and resigned, a sound Tony shouldn’t be as proud to recognize so easily from Rhodey’s lips, but he does. “Alright.” Rhodey says, “I’ll be there soon. Gimme five hours.”

“Aren’t you in Wakanda?” Tony can’t resist the urge to ask, not just to poke at him, but legitimately curious. Wakanda is at least nine hours away, even with the Quinjet.

Rhodey doesn’t even ask him how he knows that. He merely hisses, “ _Five hours._ See you soon. Stay still, don’t move.”, before ending the call.

Tony lets himself sag back into his seat when the room goes silent again, feeling like he has just been hit with a truck, or an entire convoy of trucks – or maybe just a giant, purple alien with the biggest weapon ever created. It’s like he has been drained dry, his body just a husk, his head pulsating and aching incessantly, exhaustion seeping into his bones like stains into cloth. Not even the kind of exhaustion that would make him shut down and sleep for days, because that type of exhaustion Tony knows far too well. No, the kind of exhaustion that makes him feel like his limbs are about to fall off, all strength of his body melting and dripping away, while his mind is too alert to shut down properly, as his body does.

(And now—)

(What?)

What does he do? What does he do while he sits here, in his cold, wide, abandoned home, filled with dust and void of any comfort, while the people he needs close come to him? What does he do?

Tony doesn’t know how to wait. How to sit still. Even when the situation is dire and nearly hopeless, and sometimes it _is_ hopeless, even then, Tony cannot stay still. It does against his very nature to still his hands and his racing thoughts, to accept defeat simply because he’s tired, because after so many years, it has been carved into him the idea that he can’t _stop_ until he’s done. He can’t waste time. He can’t waste anything. Even when villains have stripped him down to the barest of his bones in the past, whether by trapping him in a cave or tearing the heart out of his chest, or ripping his friends and family from his arms, or attacking him, or _whatever the hell they had done_ , even when Tony is beaten up and bleeding, he grabs whatever he can lay his hands on and forges himself a weapon, he digs his way out of hell no matter how he does it, because that’s what he _does._ He is _Tony Stark._ If Tony Stark can’t find a way to escape during the fire, who else will?

But this is not _during._ This is _after._

After the invasion, after the attack, after the final verdict. They _lost._ That was the conclusion. And now… _what?_

How does he go forth from this?

Whatever is left from his world? From the universe?

A movement at the periphery of his vision draws his attention, and he realizes that all this time his bots have been standing right there, behind him. Surprisingly quiet. He had almost forgotten they were there. Tony looks at them and thinks, sorrowful, that he wishes he’d come home to a happy reunion. He wishes he could shrug off the weight that he feels like he’s dragging with him at every step, grab himself a cup of scalding hot coffee and head down to the workshop with them, throwing jokes into the air and pulling up screens with plans and schematics, immersing himself into work as if this day was just another day in his life.

But it’s not.

“Hey, you two.” He calls, “Why don’t you go down to the lab and grab me the toolbox? The blue one, you know which one it is. Bring it here. With all tools, Dum-E! No throwing the hammer at the wall again!” Tony is damn near screaming by the end of his sentence, because the bots just start running as soon as he mentions the lab, but it’s fine. It’s not like he was lying when he said they get restless when they stay still for far too long, because they do.

“Why do you need a hammer?”, Nebula frowns after they leave.

“I don’t, I just don’t want them to be here for this.”

She looks at him like he is the most pitiful creature in the universe, which, to be fair, Tony can’t find in himself the strength to disagree with right now.

“Time to hear the verdict.” Tony tells Nebula, not as a command or a reminder, but a simple, crude remark of a fact. This is it. They need to talk about this. They need to know, _both_ of them. Tony has no idea what Nebula is or where she comes from, but if whatever has happened on Earth has happened everywhere, hearing it from FRIDAY will be just as fair as hearing it from anybody else.

(Although—)

(If Nebula brought him here, and never left to look for her people—)

(Chances are she doesn’t _have_ anyone.)

(She probably doesn’t.)

“What happened, FRI?” Tony asks, softly.

FRIDAY’s reply is unusually subdued. “I don’t have all the data necessary to make a precise calculation—”

“Just…” Tony interrupts with a spazzy gesture of his hands, shaking his head. “Just tell me what you’ve got.”

A projection shows up in front of them, from the sensors on the floor next to the bar, where they used to watch the finals when they were all together in the common lounge. Days long gone, now. The blue hue of the screen matches the one in Tony’s chest, bathing the entire room in a soft, candid color, and Nebula gives a step back so she can focus better on the images, standing literally right by Tony’s side as FRIDAY gives the final report.

“After the attack in New York by the circular spaceship and after you were gone, Boss, no other invaders have been spotted in the United States.” FRIDAY informs, and as she does, she pulls up various images from cameras on the streets or nearby establishments that managed to capture any images of the Flying Donut descending in New York and Tony’s fight with Strange and Wong against the creepy mummy alien. “Ten hours after you followed the attacker leading the spaceship and the capture of Dr. Strange, Captain Rogers and the rest of the Avengers entered the building to meet Colonel Rhodes and Doctor Banner, interrupting Colonel Rhodes’ meeting with Secretary Ross.”

 _This_ is incredibly bad news.

“In the _middle_ of a meeting with—!? You gotta be kidding me.” Tony scoffs, wry and tired, running his hands through his face roughly. “There was no better time to do a great, dramatic entrance? Really?”

FRIDAY’s reply is very careful and tentative. “If it is any better, Secretary Ross has been completely silent over the last two days. I have no way of tracking him without your explicit permission, but from public data, he has not been seen by any camera I can access in the last 48 hours.”

Tony’s eyebrows raise almost all the way to his hairline and he blinks, confusedly. “At all?”

“No, Boss.”

“Oh.” He says, out of his depth. “Well. I guess that’s that.”, and _fuck_ if that is not one the most awkward and insensitive things Tony has ever said, but… what else can he say, huh? About _Ross?_  “You have footage?”

Without any more prompting, the screen shows up from the center projector and overlaps the others, and a video starts playing, obviously taken from FRIDAY’s personal records, a footage exhibiting the inside of the compound, the conference lounge right next to the workshop.

Rhodey is in his braces, as he always is, these days, because Tony had _finally_ gotten them right and fixed the ankle joint problem, and the structure is now so lightweight that Rhodey can use it for hours without even feeling any discomfort or restraint.

In the video, Ross is saying something that Tony doesn’t care about, but he guesses it has to do with the fact that he had just disappeared into the atmosphere inside an alien spaceship and Rhodey had been down here alone, Vision still off the radar and no other heroes in their official roster to compensate Tony’s absence. He knew that would be a problem, eventually, but he had been putting off finding a solution for that, _whatever solution_ that’d be. And both Rhodey and Ross know that, because by the way they are speaking, Ross wants his head on a fucking silver platter and Rhodey is giving him nothing, like the true soldier that he is.

Until, Rhodey says _that thing._

And out of the corner, as the drama queen Tony always _knew_ he was, Rogers comes _strutting_ , with Natasha right behind him like a guardian angel, and Wilson and Maximoff trailing behind supporting an injured Vision between them.

Oh, _God._

(They—)

Is that a—?

(There is _so much_ going on in this video.)

“They were attacked?” Tony interrupts both FRIDAY and his own thoughts, focusing on Visions’ wound, worried.

“In Scotland.” FRIDAY replies, and as she pulls up more screens to show whatever footage she managed to find from Scotland, and there it is – Wanda, being shoved inside a store through the window, breaking the glass and falling on top of chairs and tables.

“You have images of the attackers?” Nebula asks, frowning.

FRIDAY pulls up another footage, from what looks like the inside of a train station, and two very alien things show up at the screen, one big, stupid-looking guy, that looks kind of like an evil elf or whatever the hell he is; and a woman, with blue designs on her face, horns, and the most hollow eyes Tony has ever seen.

“ _Proxima Midnight.”_ Nebula growls, venomously.

Tony turns to her, quirking an eyebrow. “You know them?”

“Yeah, I do.” Nebula huffs, but instead of elaborating, turns her eyes to the ceiling and asks FRIDAY, “And from the attack in this city?”

FRIDAY complies with no additional prompting, and one of the back screens comes forward, zooming in on Squidward as he walks down the street to meet them for their little conversation, Tony remembers that, and as soon as the image is clearer, Nebula twitches in disgust.

“Ebony Maw.” Nebula scoffs, and, if that’s any possible, her tone is even more bitter than it was before.

Tony almost repeats his previous question, when a flash of realization passes through him, instinctive, and he affirms, instead of merely ask: “You recognized his ship. While we were up there.”

Nebula squeezes her jaw very shut, grinding her teeth.

“How do you know who they are?” Tony squints, confusedly.

“They call themselves the Black Order. Thanos’ personal guard.” She explains.

“His children.” Tony adds, and Nebula throws him a look. “The Mummy mentioned that. Children of Thanos. Although I don’t think he meant literally.”

“Thanos kidnaps children from the planets he destroys, and forces people to join his cause.” Nebula spits furiously. “He collects them, like _pets._ ”

“So Thanos sent his murderous children first, to get a feel of the terrain, and then came personally to finish the job.”

(After I failed to stop him.)

(After he took the Time Stone from them.)

(In exchange of his _life._ )

“He wouldn’t have come without the soul stone.” Nebula comments, as her eyes go unfocused for a moment. “He came for Gamora first.”

Tony remembers Gamora. Nebula’s sister. After the entire debacle of _Where, Who_ or _Why_ is Gamora, after Quill shoved his _fist_ into Thanos’ face after he realized Thanos must’ve hurt – _killed_ – her, how could he not?

Not like Tony will be able to forget it now. Quill’s _reaction_ when talking about her, to Thanos’ face, his grief and his despair, the tears he was holding back as he tried to take revenge—

Almost like—

(No.)

( _Shut up._ )

(Not now.)

“Did she have the stone?” Tony asks Nebula, trying his best to recall all he could about the gauntlet in Thanos’ hand, and the stones already attached to it when he arrived in Titan. There had been how many of them? Four, right? A purple one, a blue one, a red and an orange. And then the Time Stone – green. Yes, four.

One of them must’ve been the Soul Stone. The one he took right before following them to Titan.

“She knew where it was.” Nebula explains, “A barren planet named Vormir. She was the only one who knew. He took her, and he _killed her._ And came back with the stone alone.”

“You knew.” Tony points out, half as a question and half as an affirmation. “I mean, you just said where it was. You knew.”

“Thanos wouldn’t have picked me. Not over her.” Nebula twitches, and Tony realizes she has just stopped herself from shaking her head despairingly, locking her gaze on the projections and not turning to look him in the eye. “She was his favorite. He used _me_ to make her talk.”

Tony takes in a very careful breath. “His favorite?”

Nebula makes a pause – a moment that falls heavy before them, like it’s a living thing, solid and _there_ , until Nebula slices through with a whisper that is so soft that almost dissolves into the air.

“Daughter.”

Gamora.

Thanos’ daughter.

Quill’s girl. 

(Nebula’s _sister._ )

Tony gulps, and his hand unconsciously closes in on the soft cushion of the couch, his fingers digging uncomfortably into the seat. “Thanos was your father?”

“I was Thanos’ prisoner.” Nebula snaps, but with not enough heat. “As was Gamora.”

Tony bites his lip a little, his teeth worrying into his chapped, dry bottom lip with a stinging force, the taste of the dirt and sand on his skin pungent on his tongue, a flavor that is, somehow, _less_ stifling than the bile rising up with throat at the very _idea_ that Nebula presents to him.

 _Daughter of Thanos._ Daughter, huh.

(What does that motherfucker know of children?)

No, really – _what does he know?_ Genocidal, crazy, _completely insane_ alien, that came around clamoring for blood, to wipe away half of the entire humanity; Elders, men, women and _children._ Like the _child_ that had been out there on the street for _days,_ rotting away, forgotten, left behind by whoever was with him when Thanos’ final blow hit.

_What does he know?_

These are his children? Bloodthirsty maniacs, armed with psychic powers and weapons and spears, that descended from the skies to bring chaos and dust, to invade their lives and rip their loved ones from their arms without so much as blinking an eye? _These_ are his children – The ones that helped Thanos take _Pete_ way, a _kid_ , with no mercy, with no… no _chance_ of trade or _choice?_

 _Nebula_ , one of these children? Of the Black Order?

No.

Tony looks up at the screens, at the video footages of _Proxima Midnight_ and _Ebony Maw_ , and he stares at them for a very, very long time.

_No._

Not his daughter. Not Thanos’ daughter. Thanos’ _prisoner._

“Alright.” Tony says, sounding winded and pretending to ignore the fact completely, slapping the sofa cushion beneath him in a completely out of place action, merely to hold back the instinct to pull Nebula close. “Crap family, huh? Welcome to the club.”

Nebula’s expression falls, her hardened mask crumbling down, for the briefest of moments – and behind it, Tony finally sees _something_ , the something he knew was there ever since Nebula held that boy in her arms out there on the street, that soft, wavering fragility she was keeping hidden under so many walls and so many hard glares and snares.

When her mask slips off, Tony sees the most profound _sadness_ in them, swirling inside the depths of her eyes like creatures hiding in the bottom of the sea, untouched by light all their lives, existing knowing only darkness and cold.

Tony _can’t help_ the twinge of pain that grips his heart, the sorrow, the _understanding_ , and the movement of raising his hand and touching Nebula’s forearm is completely involuntary, born of an instinct so deep he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until after he has done it, and Nebula gives the smallest of twitches when his warm – _too warm_ – hand touches her cold metal arm.

The subject drops between them, and neither of them mentions it again.

It’s probably better this way.

“So.” Tony clears his throat after a few moments, taking his hand away in the least awkward possible. “Things 1 and 2 attack Earth, Mummy gets Strange into the ship but the other two don’t manage to get the Mind Stone. Rogers pulls a Spanish Inquisition on Ross and brings them _here_ —” and it takes a lot of effort to say this as calmly as he says everything else. “—, they grab Rhodey and Bruce and head to Wakanda?”

“Yes.” FRIDAY agrees, back to her formal tone and efficient organizing. “According to footage of the War Machine armor, sixteen hours after they were already in Wakanda, preparing for battle with the aid of King T’Challa.”

“Take battle to Wakanda, and T’Challa tries to end them away from the rest of the world. Clever.” Tony murmurs to himself, thinking out loud.

“But Thanos arrived.” Nebula reminds him, sourly.

“Thanos arrived.” Tony agrees, sullenly. “And he took Vision’s stone.”

FRIDAY’s silence is all the agreement he is going to get.

“And then?” He presses.

“I do not… fully know.” FRIDAY admits. “Colonel Rhodes was not present at the very moment Thanos unleashed his final attack, so the footage from the War Machine armor does not disclose fully what happened, but mere moments after the last attack Colonel Rhodes received himself, the _effects_ of the final attack of Thanos began to occur.”

(Oh God.)

(Here it comes.)

The sheer amount of apprehension he feels makes everything feel foggy, and Tony has to blink a lot to make sure he won’t simply pass out from the light-headedness now, because he has to hear this.

“People have… disappeared, Boss.” FRIDAY says, “Vanished. Into thin air.”

(Here it comes.)

( _Here it comes._ )

Tony breathes, as calmly as he can, and asks, “How many?”

“There were three separate units in King T’Challa’s—"

“Around the _world_ , FRIDAY.” Tony interrupts harshly. “How many?”

“I cannot tell with only our private satellites, Boss.” FRIDAY regretfully answers. “I would need your permission to extend my reach of research and produce a more accurate estimation of the numbers.”

SHIELD’s satellites are probably still running, he guesses. Fury used to have the biggest database in the world, the very own database HYDRA tried to use when Rogers stopped their attack in Washington in 2014, and if there’s one thing that Tony is sure of, more than anything else, is that Nicky Fury is a wary, sneaky son of a bitch, and that database has _not_ been abandoned even if he went underground.

“Alright. Permission given.” Tony waves a hand in the air, shaking his head. “Hit me.”

“According to my calculations—” FRIDAY stutters, a glitch so brief and well-disguised that anyone who didn’t know her wouldn’t have caught it. But Tony has. Tony has because Tony _made_ her, and Tony _knows,_ he knows whatever is about to come is going to absolutely _destroy him_ , but he _has to hear it._  

“How many?” he whispers, and closes his eyes, wishing he could escape this.

FRIDAY pauses, hesitant, and says:

“There are approximately three billion people left, Boss.”

Three?

Three—!?

“It’s less than half.” Tony whispers horrified, rising to his feet. He accidentally pushes Nebula when he does, but he doesn’t feel it at all.

His body has just gone fully numb.

“How many were there before?” Nebula inquires, looking at him, but Tony is just staring ahead, unblinking.

“Roughly seven billion.” FRIDAY replies, quietly.

“That’s less than half.” Nebula _also_ says, confused, horrified, and Tony lets out a wounded whimper when he hears it _again_ , from _someone else’s_ mouth, which makes it even worse, even _more_ real.

“Less than half.” Tony says again, deliriously. “What is the precise number?”

FRIDAY pulls up a screen full of graphs and readings, heat-signatures and demographics, cross-checking information in real time, right in front of him – and a number, blinking uncertainly as many, many other documents and serves pass by behind it, calculations running wild before settling, _slowly_ , into a number that will forever be etched into Tony’s mind.

2.946.392.081.

“With a five-million margin of error, Boss.”

Tony can’t fucking _breathe._

(2.946.392.081.)

_Approximately three billion rounding **up.**_

_It’s less than that._

_Less than that._

“My calculations are not precise, Boss.” FRIDAY quickly reminds him, sensing his distress, from both inside and out, running in Tony’s veins through the biomarkers and pumping wildly into his core, and his _lack of breathing_ and unfocused stare. “Heat signatures are not the most reliable way to calculate such a large mass—”

“What was the percentage?” Tony interrupts, shaken. “How much has it decreased, from two days ago?”

“Nearly 59 percent.” FRIDAY admits.

59 percent.

With one attack.

One _strike_ , and Thanos took _four billion people_ down.

( **The best kind of weapon is the one you only have to fire once.** )

“He was supposed to wipe out half the population” Tony says to FRIDAY, so she can consider that information in her calculations – but also as an explanation, and also as a disbelieving plea, and also as an _apology_ , all wrapped in one. “ _Half._ Where have all the others gone?”

A flash goes behind his eyelids, and he remembers dust, a street, and a _boy._

“There have been accidents, Boss. Many accidents.” FRIDAY immediately says, sounding profoundly sad. “I’ve detected over twenty-five thousand immediate casualties, in the state of New York alone. Main causes include: car crashes, heavy machinery malfunction or mishandle, destruction of buildings and plane crashes. I also have registers of three emergency alerts being sounded within areas declared as biohazardous and in seventeen institutions that handle dangerous or sensitive biological and chemical substances and materials, during the first hour after the final attack.”

“Would that take out that many people? In such a short span of time?” Nebula asks.

“It is not only the accidents” FRIDAY informs, and as soon as she does, more screens pop up with various videos playing, a cacophony of disturbing sounds and too-fast images, all of them blurring together in his tired mind. “Riots have been detected in over thirty-three countries, often multiple riots in the same location only hours apart. People are stealing goods, mainly food, and it is possible that people have been hurt or even killed during these riots.”

_Food._

Food, Pepper had said. Food, and something about a boy.

 _Starving,_ Tony realizes. It’s been _two days_ , and people are already _starving._

“Isn’t that what he wanted?” Tony whispers to himself, madly. “Less people, more food? Why are people starving?”

“Blocked roads stop the distribution of the food.” FRIDAY replies. “Those located closer to the source secured their own. And I fear that if this Thanos’ intention was to cut the numbers to allow more resources to those who remain… That is not what has happened.”

(Oh God. This sounds like is about to get worse.)

_Worse?_

But how can this get any worse?

“My readings also detect a massive decline in the total surface area of forests and vegetation. I am unable to calculate the percentage, but the visuals present evidence. I can form a projection to further clarify the results of the analysis.”

And she does – and the screen lights up with to different projections of the globe, one from days ago, and one rendered from the information she can obtain in real time.

Tony has seen images like this before. In conferences, in talks about environment restoration and protection, in many conferences Tony attended after he turned to green energy. He has seen estimates, the _horror_ stories, of what would happen if they all continued to take, and take, and take, and left the planet bare.

It takes a moment for Tony to fully process what that information _means,_ what exactly he is seeing when he stares at the two projections, side by side, and the one on the right just looks like a sick, destroyed sphere, in comparison to the image on the left.

The image of a decaying planet.

“He took plants too?” Tony frowns, his entire face scrunching up in dizzy confusion.

“And animals as well, we can logically assume.” FRIDAY adds.

“That makes no sense.” Tony pants, gesticulating helplessly. “He took _everything?_ How is that—!”

“It’s what he does.” Nebula says through gritted teeth. “He _takes._ He doesn’t _think._ ”

“Where the hell does he think we take food from?” Tony exclaims, crazed. “How is that supposed to help us manage the resources? _Taking away the resources?_ ”

Nebula stares at him worriedly. “Will you starve?”

“No.” Tony exhales harshly, struggling to keep himself in check. “We have other ways to produce food. And plants grow fast. Faster than us. But that doesn’t— It makes no _sense._ Why would he do that?”

But FRIDAY has no answers for him. Neither has Nebula. Either of them has answers.

But FRIDAY—

FRIDAY still has something more.

“I fear that is not the most pressing concern.” She says, darkly, and Tony shivers from head to toe, going stiff as a statue, his entire body locking up in anticipation like he’s preparing for a physical blow, because he is so fragile at this point that anything _worse_ than what he has already heard will feel just as bad as the spear that went through his body and tore him open.

“And what is?” he fearfully asks, and dreads the answer with all his being.

But instead of outright saying, FRIDAY pulls up _more_ additional data, replacing the projections of the Earth with close-ups of a clear sky on the left and a cloudy, dark, bleak shot of a huge swirling mist, so thick Tony could feel the phantom sensation of it in his fingers, could smell in his mind if he allowed himself to recall the scent.

It was what the sky looked like when they left the hospital, just like that. Filled with smoke and sulfur and clouds, blocking the sun, drenching the soil in gloom.

Next to the projections, other graphs pop up. Tony skims over them and reads words like _pressure_ and _altitude_ , and _oxygen levels_ and _precipitation_ , but he can’t focus on them long enough to actually interpret the ever-changing columns and pie charts, so it all jumbles inside his head in a mess he can’t even begin to imagine how he must untangle.

“What’s this?” He inquires, lost and helpless, unable to comprehend how any of _this_ can be any worse than _losing 59% of the population **and** half of all other things._

(But it is.)

(It _is._ )

But Tony hasn’t gotten it yet.

“This is the current mass of pollutants in the atmosphere, which has increased by over 400% in the last two days, by a sudden explosion of toxic fumes all over the world. Partially due to the accidents in factories, research centers, hospitals, and many other facilities, but also the increase of—"

“ _Dust._ ” Tony says, his mouth working faster than his brain, that is still struggling to catch up, still struggling to make that last connection, as if it’s holding back on _purpose,_ as if it doesn’t want to let him go on.

The air.

_The air._

(What about the air, Tony?)

“Yes.” FRIDAY says. “If gathered footage is to be believed, and the vanishing of half the world population has occurred by _turning them into dust—”_

“The ashes.” Tony sobs. “They have all turned into ash, and the wind blew them away.”

Tony can see it happening in his mind’s eye, the memory so clear it hurts to look at it, like a too-bright screen or directly looking into a flashlight, a tunnel of white burning directly into his retinas, branding a photograph into his brain he’ll never be able to burn off.

(Peter, turning into ash.)

(Dissolving in his arms.)

(The wind blowing him away, into _nothing._ )

(Into space.)

( **But what about those who were down here, Tony?** )

“If they have turned to ash—” FRIDAY repeats, because she knows Tony isn’t listening, she knows what is happening to him, and she’s _still talking_. “Even if each person had only dispersed ten grams, it would still amount to over three hundred tons of chemicals and particles, without accounting for vegetation and animal life, or particles that have been released into the ocean and other bodies of water—"

The air they’re breathing, that everyone else who’s left is breathing, is _full of ashes._

The haze in the city. The grey sky. The dust on top of his bots. The thing choking up Tony’s lungs when he tries to breathe in too deep.

_Ashes._

_Of those who fell._

“—The sun is not breaching the troposphere as it should. The decrease in sun incidence should affect the remaining vegetation and animal life, as well as—"

He’s breathing—!

Everyone is breathing in _ashes of the people who are gone._

“Boss.” FRIDAY says, curtly. “At this rate, the numbers will keep depleting. Until there is no one left.”

Thanos is going to fucking exterminate them, like the meteor did with the dinosaurs, burying them beneath dust and dark, until they wither away or suffocate to death. That’s what he’s going to do. Mass extermination, slow, drawn-out _extinction_ , _no escape._

This is punishment. Shit, this is it, isn’t it? This is – This is – This is _judgment_ , because it can’t be anything else. How – How can this happen?  This can’t be happening.

They are all going to _die_ , choking on the ashes of those who _already did._

(Oh God.)

( **He wants to die.** )

(This can’t be it.)

(It _can’t be_.)

“No.” Tony says out loud, without even meaning to, pacing around like a madman. “No, no. No. This can’t happen.”

“Stark—”

“ _It can’t happen._ ” Tony barks back at whoever spoke, because he’s not coherent enough to discern which one of them was. “It can’t happen like this.”

“What are you going to do—!?”

“FRIDAY.” Tony calls loudly.

“Yes, Boss?” FRIDAY responds over the low snarl Nebula gives in protest.

“I need you to find me whoever you can. Fury, Hill, Selvig, Foster, Cho, whoever is left.”

“Right away.” FRIDAY readily complies.

“Also see if you can find Barton and Lang. And Hank Pym, maybe. And—”

And Tony chokes, his rage subsiding into a shy flame, muffled by the deepest shame and sorrow he has ever felt.

“And May Parker.”

“Yes, Boss.” FRIDAY says, and goes silent to finish her duties.

And in the quiet she leaves in her wake, Tony breathes, and breathes, and breathes, and every breath is a stab in his heart.

(Every breath is something unholy.)

(Something _vile._ )

May Parker. Jesus fuck, what will he say to May Parker – if she’s still alive, even? What will he _say?_

What will he say?

( _I lost the kid._ )

_I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry._

( _I would have done anything. I would have sacrificed myself for him. I would have._ )

_But he was taken from me._

_He was taken, and I couldn’t stop it._

( _I would have given my life for his_.)

_Because I wasn’t enough._

Tony will never be able to dream again. Never again, he knows. He will die like this, wide-awake, his nightmares following him around just like _death_ seems to, leaving their footprints wherever he goes, dragging his soul behind him bit by bit, stealing every single speck he still has, until he is dry and left with _nothing._ Tony will waste away in all the ways except the one Thanos didn’t give him, and he knows it because he knows what feels like. Knows it all too well. Knows it, like he knows his very heart.

He’d really thought he’d be able to get through this, didn’t he? Stupid Tony. Stupid, naïve Tony. He really thought he could _win._

(What a laugh.)

He’d thought he would be fine. He truly thought he’d be able to get a real life. To live peacefully. To be _happy._ He really thought that.

He had Pepper by his side again, he had her love, he had her company. He had Rhodey, _walking_ and _fighting_ , as fierce and relentless as only Rhodey could be, and always, always in his corner. He had Happy, a man he trusted with all his heart, he had SI, he had FRIDAY.

He had—

He had the _kid._

_But then—_

(And he let it happen.)

( _He lost the kid._ )

Pete hadn’t been his own, Tony knows that. Tony _knows_ , in his rational mind, that Pete was, at most, a mentee or a protégé, and that’s all. The kid had his own family, after all. He had his Aunt, and his friends, and all the people that already existed in his life before Tony came around. Tony was not his father. _Tony knows that._

But—

But the _kid…_

 _God, fuck_ , the kid _had been his._ His to care for, his to teach, his to _protect._ When Tony got the warning that he had fallen into the lake, when he got involved with the Vulture guy behind Tony’s back, when he realized Pete had been _inside the spaceship_ , Tony’s heart had beaten so wildly with fear and apprehension he thought he might die.  Tony would’ve _died_ for that kid with _no questions asked._ He wouldn’t have hesitated in sacrificing himself if that meant Pete would still be here. When Strange – When Strange warned him he’d let Tony and Peter die, if that meant he’d save the Time Stone, Tony just… Tony just _knew_ , right then.

 _It won’t be necessary_ , he could’ve said.

_I’ll throw myself into the fire so that kid won’t have to. So the kid will be safe._

But he never even got the chance to try.

“I’m sorry.” Nebula mumbles, and Tony can hear the way it _hurts her_ to say it, hurts her throat and it hurts her heart. Tony wishes he could give her condolences too, but if he opens his mouth now and tries to speak, he will burst into tears.

He lets himself fall back to the couch and buries his face in his hands, bending helplessly until his forehead almost touches his knees, and he stays there, beaten down, broken, holding back hot-stinging tears with all his might, biting into his lip with such strength he cuts it open and the copper bursts into his mouth, viscous and foul, and he thinks he _deserves it._

“This is what he does.” She says, words heavy with grief. “He invades, planet to planet, and wipes out half of the population. And the rest…”, she stops, and shakes her head, “The rest never recovers or dies slowly until there’s nothing left.”

_Nothing left. Until there is nothing left._

(What if it already has?)

(What if Tony already has nothing else to give?)

“He did the same thing to me” Nebula explains, “And to Gamora. And to his own planet. He always does it.”

“So you’re telling me we have no way out?” Tony interrupts, hysterically. “That we all should accept we’re going to go extinct in a few weeks and I should just sit by and _let it happen?_ ”

“Years, if you’re lucky.” Nebula says with no tact at all, all hard facts and steel will, her hands balling into fists, shaking in her lap. “And no. You shouldn’t.”

Tony stares at her, paralyzed in despair, and as she stares back, the iron-clad resolve that burns bright behind them is terrifying, and Tony can’t look away.

“What I’m saying is that you better be ready to do something, if you want to save your planet.”, she says, firmly.

Tony reminds himself that this is Nebula he’s talking to, probably one of the fiercest people in the universe, _Thanos’ prisoner._ She’s seen what he can do, up closer, probably closer than Tony is seeing now or saw in Titan. She knows how he acts and how he operates, and she is _burning_ for revenge.

“And what’s in it for you?” he asks, cautiously.

Nebula’s face twitches unpleasantly, full of barely contained rage “I want Thanos’ head.”

Tony huffs disbelievingly, shaking his head and pushing his body away, physically rejecting the idea before it can take roots in his brain. “Why do you think I’ll be able to give you that?”, he exclaims, pitifully. “What do you expect from me?”

“Thanos let you live.” Nebula points out.

“In exchange for the Time Stone.” Tony reminds her.

“Because he _wanted to._ ” Nebula insists, and she starts to raise her voice with each and every word, her fury leaking through the cracks when the memories hit a little too close to home. “He had you. He had all of us. He would have killed me, he _killed Gamora_. He could have killed you too!” She stops, and takes a careful breath. “But he didn’t.”

Tony once thought, after Afghanistan, after too many sleepless nights and too much self-hatred, too many instances where he almost reached up and removed the freshly places Arc Reactor from his chest himself, he thought—

He’d _said_ that if he was still alive after all that had happened to him, there should’ve been a reason for it.

He doesn’t believe that anymore. Or – he does, but at the same time, he _doesn’t_. He doesn’t have the strength to hold that though so close to his chest as he had before, to use it the same way he used the Arc Reactor, to keep his heart beating, to keep his promise to Yinsen alive. To remind himself not to waste his life.

“Why?” Tony asks, and it is almost a plea, a desperate request for an answer, for direction, for anything at all that will help him fill the void that has been carved deep inside him, like the vast darkness of the universe.

Nebula looks at him, and whatever she _sees,_ it makes Tony frightened.

“Because something you did hold him back.”

_You’ve got my respect, Stark._

(Why is Tony still alive?)

“I took one drop of blood.” Tony pathetically says.

“More than I have.” Nebula huffs, bitterly. “You took _something_ , Stark.”

“He took much more from me.”

“And you will take it back.” Nebula affirms, full of conviction, and Tony doesn’t have the heart to tell her how wrong she is, because he just _can’t anymore._

But then—

Tony’s ears register the sound of the armor approaching even before his mind does. He knows it like the back of his hand. He can hear it approaching, soaring through the gloomy sky, heading straight to his direction, and he gets up hastily and shakes in his wobbly legs, looking out through the glass walls and into the great field surrounding the Compound, his eyes darting from side to side like a stranded man, looking for incoming help in the horizon.

“ _Pepper._ ” He exclaims, and even as he limps unsteadily, even as his sides throb with the ache of his injuries that never find enough downtime to heal, he makes a quick run towards the elevator, Nebula getting up confusedly behind him and following his trail with an angry _hey!,_ until they both cram themselves into the elevator with no care at all, as the door closes and FRIDAY takes them up in the direction of the landing pad.

 _“Are you out of your mind?_ ” Nebula growls, and Tony ignores her in favor of rubbing his hands together, fidgety and anxious, watching the doors raptly and counting in his head the number of floors as they pass them.

As soon as the doors open, Tony maneuvers himself out clumsily and passes by Nebula, who stays inside proffering all sorts of insults and threats at him, but Tony doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care, because as soon as he steps out and the stifling heat of the outside hits him, the smell of sulfur and the gloom, gray tones of the sky—

There she is, descending on the landing pad, _suited up_ , alive and _safe._

_There she is._

“Pep!” Tony screams, swallowing down his hiss of pain when he takes the first too-quick step in her direction, the adrenaline forcing him forward much faster and harder than he should, but he doesn’t stop. He climbs the small steps toward the center of the landing pad quickly, gritting his teeth through all the insufferable aches of his legs muscles, the heaving of his breath

“Tony! _Tony!_ ” Pepper screams back, and her voice is modified by the suit, her tone distorted by the speakers and muffles by the sound of repulsors, but it’s _her_ , and Tony very nearly cries with relief.

It was just a precaution. Just a silly, paranoid idea, that he’d never thought she’d need.

Yet, here she is.

Using the suit Tony made for her. A suit he’d wished never came to see the light.

The suit touches down on the landing pad, and, as soon as it does, it starts to disassemble, the parts shifting neatly and opening up, revealing Pepper, rattled, and dirty and ragged, still in a formal white shirt and a pencil skirt, barefooted, her hair stuck into a mess of a ponytail and dirt smeared on her cheek, eyes bright and wide with terror and as breathless as he feels.

She is so pale. She looks like she hasn’t slept in years.

Tony all but _runs_ towards her.

“Oh my God, Tony!” Pepper screams, ragged, and she opens her arms to him just as he opens his for her, and they collide together, with the force and intensity of a supernova. “ _Oh my God. **Oh God.**_ ”

“Pepper, honey.” Tony whispers into her hair, sweet nothings laced with despair, feeling himself shake in her arms so intensely he knows he’s moving her, but her hands go around his torso and settle against his back and they are shaking as well, her nails digging into skin, holding as tight as she can.

Her breath hitches when she grazes the bandages, the texture foreign to touch, and she looks at his belly with unconcealed terror.

“Is that a _bandage?_ Are you injured!?”

“He was stabbed.”

Pepper lets out a startled sound, something that is almost a scream, and she jumps back and pulls Tony along with her, dragging them both closer to the armor, who responds to her distress and activates sentinel mode immediately, a mechanical arm holding up a repulsor ready to blast right over Tony’s right shoulder.

It all happens so fast that Tony is still blinking when he realizes Nebula has raised her arms and is _glaring_ at him, furious.

“ _Stark.”_ Nebula calls loudly, both as a warning and as a request for help, and Tony jerks.

“No, no, don’t shoot!” He puts his hands in front of the gauntlet, knowing the armor won’t shoot with obstructed sight. “She’s friendly!”

“Tony!” Pepper yells, disbelieving. “You brought an _alien_ with you!?”

“More like she brought me with her.” Tony shakily replies, gesturing to Nebula behind him with a long sweep of his arm, a flourish both unnecessary but also totally unavoidable in his nervousness. “Nebula, this is Pepper, my fiancé. Pepper, this is Nebula, my…”

(What?)

“Your ride?” Pepper suggests, filled with sarcasm, but that is actually a fairly accurate description.

“You can say that.” He agrees, trying to lighten the mood so Pepper will back down, but he is still incredibly alert that the armor still hasn’t moved. “Lower the gauntlet, please, honey.”

“What?” Pepper frowns, exasperated.

“The gauntlet. Please.” Tony motions to the armor with his head, and when Pepper turns around, she exhales a soft _oh_ , and nods at it, blinking confusedly, and it is only at her request that the armor complies and stands down, going back to resting position and deactivating the system until further requests.

With no small amount of hesitation, Pepper takes a step back from it, and looks shocked when it responds so efficiently. She whips her head back and looks at him, confused and says, in a tone Tony has heard far too many times not to recognize:

“Tony, this armor—"

“I included something for you.” Tony interrupts, already knowing what she will say, because it doesn’t matter. Not right now. “A system of your own. In case… you know.”

Pepper lets out an exhausted sigh, a sigh that becomes fearful and shaky midway, and all setbacks she might have about the armor are forgotten when she grips his arms and looks into his eyes desperately, then to his stomach, then to Nebula, standing as still as possible behind him, ready to pull out her weapons if anything else threatens her again.

Pepper looks up, into the sky, and only the gray – the _ashes_ – look back.

And she asks him:

“What _happened_ , Tony?”

And all Tony can say to her is the bitter truth.

“We lost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four years until the story picks up? Sitting idle inside the Compound, wallowing in guilt and loss until the end of days, waiting for a blessing from the skies to arrive? No, darlings. Here, we work with a time restraint. We work with the highest of stakes. We work with consequences. 
> 
> Something the MCU should have considered. But if they didn't, I'll do it myself. 
> 
> Be honest with me for a second: how many people have you seen mention the dust as a major problem in the aftermath of the snap? I've seen people mention the accidents. The food rationing. The riots. The anarchy. But the dust? Not a single person. And that called my attention - because at first, I thought the dust was simply a matter of special effects to make it visually heartbreaking; but then, after they were totally gone, the dust is gone as well, right? Wrong. I went back and rewatched IW just for the sake of this detail, and guess what? The dust doesn't vanish. It seems like it does, because nearly everyone that gets killed by it has their ashes blown by the wind, for dramatic effect.
> 
> But the very first one, Bucky, told me all I needed to know. When Bucky vanishes, his ashes fall to the floor and don't disappear. They stay there. Which means his ashes, as well as everybody else's, can be dispersed through the air and become one of the biggest problems for the remaining population of the Earth. 
> 
> Oh, I was so sad when I first watched this scene in the theaters. Who could've known this would become the thing that puts a sadistic smile on my face as I write this? The world truly is full of surprises. 
> 
> But there it is! There it is, folks! Pepper is here, and Rhodey is on his way - and not alone ;) We're about to open the world's biggest can of worms! Don't let this Pepperony reunion fool you, that SteveTony tag is firmly in place and it'll stay there - and I wonder if any of you have any idea how I'm gonna make that work, seeing I'm keeping Pepper alive and Tony still very much caring for her.
> 
> No easy way out, friends. I hope you're excited. And when the shit hits the fan, remember: you asked for this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want talk about relationships for a second. 
> 
> The relationship Tony has with other characters in the MCU is fundamentally different than that of the comics. Of course, the comics have had more than enough time to construct long-lasting friendships and romantic relationships for the characters over the years (even if they occasionally take one step forward, two steps backward, depending on what run you're reading), but my point is that if I want to describe the relationship between Tony and any other character in the comics, nearly every single time I will be able to come up with more material, from all kind of sources, than I would be able to do with the MCU. And that's a little difficult, because when the subject is Tony, a lot of things you learn about him don't come from the actions he takes for the sake of his own benefit or motivation, but the things he does for others and their comfort or safety. If MCU Steve is a creature that needs isolation and stagnation to feel pressured, Tony works in the exact opposite way - because while Steve will hold himself steady and not move, Tony will bend until he snaps his spine if that means someone he cares about won't get hurt.
> 
> And that's important. That's how we're gonna learn about him: Through his relationships.
> 
> To very truthful, up until now I have only grazed the surface of Tony's character. Barely made a scratch. I've been aching to write a more in-depth analysis of him, but the need to lay down the scenario held me back - and if I want to make this work, I can't hold back at all.
> 
> Tony has all sorts of problems buried beneath a façade he maintained for years, a special sort of self-defense that's very hard to break down. He has a good heart, but his mind is a daunting place. He is really, really good at twisting his own thoughts into dangerous directions - and to my despair, he is even harder to understand than Steve, because I hold him far too close to my own heart. I hope you can bear with me on this. My descent into Tony's mindset is going to be very difficult, and I suspect it's going to take a toll on both me and you, because to make it work, I'll have to pick apart every single one of his relationships, one by one, piece by piece. 
> 
> And to do that, I need the right people to be present. So here it is. This is that chapter.
> 
> You came here for an Avengers reunion? Well. Here it is - And all the emotional baggage that comes with it.
> 
> You are all about to witness in detail one of my favorite parts of writing stories like this, from just one character's POV, unreliable narrator-style: interpretation of intention. To those of you who have read Part I, who have seen the long, agonizing journey I had Steve and his team go through, and all the emotional revelations that came with it - to you, the return of the Rogue Avengers is going to be... an interesting addition. Especially through Tony's eyes. I wonder if I made Steve go deep enough under your skin so you'd be able to recognize what is truly happening in this chapter, past Tony's personal vision of them. I sure am excited to try! What fun would it be if I didn't add another layer of difficulty in this already messed up situation? No fun at all.
> 
> So let's bring them to the game. And it's all downhill from here.

Pepper’s hands are warm. They never once leave him as they walk back inside together, stumbling on the steps and standing very close inside the elevator despite its spacious interior, with Nebula always hovering close by. Nebula, in turn, walks in a mixture of awkwardness and wariness that falls upon Pepper with the weight of stones, gaze burning hot at their napes, and although Tony feels it with acute precision, Pepper completely ignores it. Or maybe she doesn’t even realize it; It’s possible, given how exhausted she looks. Tony wants to ask her what happened, wants to try to do whatever he can to make this easier for her, even if he knows that Pepper isn’t the sort to share her troubled feelings easily – but he can’t quite make himself to do it, even if his mouth opens and closes awkwardly for a second, breath hiccupping and carrying no words forward, because he’s frankly too afraid to ask.

Tony has seen one street and that alone had brought him to his knees.

The idea of whatever Pepper had seen is so terrible that it only compares to his worst nightmares.

As the light shifts steadily with each floor the elevator passes by, Pepper closes her eyes for a moment, squeezing tight, her mouth twisted and brows scrunched together, and her grip on Tony’s arm becomes just a little tighter, her fingers digging steadily into his forearm. It hurts to watch more than it hurts to feel her nails sinking into his skin.

“Hey.” Tony calls softly, bringing his head closer to hers, because his heart aches when he sees her like this, and he can’t simply sit by and watch as her expression shifts into agony.

“I was so worried about you.” Pepper admits, in a whisper as soft as his own. Her eyes open, but she stares the doors with her gaze vacant, taking in breaths that are far too calculated to be natural. “I thought you were dead, Tony.”

Her grip gets tighter yet, and her fingers tremble.

“I tried to stop it.” Tony replies mutedly, helplessly, as an apology, as an explanation, and as a plea, because he really can’t say anything else about it.

He’s sorry.

God, Pepper can’t even begin to understand how sorry he is, how guilty he feels knowing she was down here all this time, watching the people vanish into nothing and with no idea what had happened to him, when she had desperately asked him to come back as soon as Tony had boarded the alien ship. She had asked for him. She asked him to stay, all but _demanded_ he turned around, really, and Tony had ignored her.

She was down here all this time, alone, as the entire world collapsed around her.

And Tony knows there’s nothing Pepper fears the most than a tragedy she can’t fix or escape.

He’s sorry.

He wraps his arm around hers and pulls her closer, nearly squishing her to his side, and he hopes she understands.

He’s sorry.

Tony knows better than to believe Pepper is breakable, but he also knows better than to believe she is invulnerable. Tony knows her far too well. Tony knows what she’d probably done in these past two days – he can see it in his mind’s eye; Pepper, panicking under a calm expression and reigning in her own anguish so well that her hands wouldn’t even tremble. Tony heard it in her voice over the call, the strength and leadership that never truly stops lacing her tone because it’s such a big part of her, the instinct of being a protector too great to be suffocated, even by her fear.

Tony has no doubts she was scared.

Who wouldn’t be?

(He can only imagine how _loud_ it was, down here.)

(Cars, buildings, glass and screams.)

(It must’ve sounded like hell.)

(Tony’s hell had been quiet.)

(Too quiet.)

She had been scared.

But when Tony didn’t come back, and Happy was gone, and the world held still and stopped breathing, terrified and hopeless — That’s always the moment when Pepper raises her chin up high and squares her shoulders and takes hell by its reigns and beats it into order. It’s what she does. Pepper is the neat, strong hand that guides people to the quickest way to safety, because her mind has the sharpness for business but her heart has the compassion many in her position lack, and it shows, because if the world is tilting out of its axis, Pepper is never afraid to be the one to step closer and hold it together for as long as she can.

Even… Even if it won’t be enough this time.

Tony knew she held her own during the past days. He doesn’t underestimate Pepper Potts.

But he left her alone to deal with it anyway. And even if he had _no other choice,_ he feels like the absolute worst for making her believe he’d also left alone to deal with this.

They argue about this all the time, and Tony should know better, _by now_ he should know better, but he couldn’t – he wasn’t going to ignore the huge alien spaceship, much less after Bruce’s warning. Tony had been—

He had been _waiting_ for this. He _knew_ this would happen someday, even if no one would believe him. He’d always known.

Pepper hates it, and he knows that. They used to fight so much over it. Tony tried to stop it, to make her happy, and he thought – He thought he had been doing well, he believed that he had finally found the balance she needed after so many years of trying and failing to find a middle-ground, but then the giant _fucking_ spaceship came, _as he always feared it would._

And he left her here. Alone. Thinking he was dead.

“I’m sorry.” He mutters, and closes his mouth sharply before he can say anything else.

He knows how this goes. They’ve done this far too many times. He knows words are of little use right now.

Whatever else he has to say, it won’t make this any better.

Pepper knows it too. She doesn’t prod, she doesn’t scream, she doesn’t argue – she does, however, let out a sigh of relief when the elevator reaches the main floor and the doors open to reveal the Compound, as quiet and neat as it was before, before all of this, and the normalcy of it is so welcome to her that Tony can feel it beneath his hands, the way she releases the tension in her shoulders like a steel cable finally being relieved of weight. 

(Funny.)

Tony had had the complete opposite reaction.

The questions come up all the way to his throat again, squeezing his airways, flooding his mouth like alcohol bubbling up his stomach, but they never truly leave his lips.

(But how horrible it must be—)

(Outside—)

Because how else would she react so strongly to an empty building? How is _this_ something she now associates with safety, when Tony can only take in the bare walls and the echoes of his steps and think of _loss_?

Pepper starts into a quick walk inside, and the only that stops her is the fact that Tony is half-attached to her and so, so distracted that when she walks, she pulls him awkwardly and the movement stings all the way across Tony’s abdomen, and he hisses before he can stop himself, and Nebula jolts in alert behind him at the pained sound.

She makes an aborted gesture towards Tony, nearly swatting Pepper’s hands away, but the quick turn Pepper makes back and the “Tony, are you okay?” she exclaims is fast enough that it halts Nebula in her defensive movement, waiting patiently for Pepper’s next move.

Pepper’s next move is to pull Tony forward, slowly this time, and impatiently push him in the direction of the sofas.

“It’s fine, it just stings a little. No big deal.” Tony assures her, and is properly ignored.

“You need to sit down.”

“I’m fine. No need to fuss, she’s done more than enough of that already.” Tony informs her in a placating tone, pointing at Nebula with a gesture of his head as casually as he can, reminding Pepper they are not alone.

Pepper makes a sound of surprise, a quiet, distracted exhale, and as Tony lowers himself on the couch again as she prompted, Pepper turns slightly in Nebula’s direction, still not fully stepping away from Tony.

Nebula’s expression is conflicted. Her breathing comes out a little hard through her nostrils, mouth tight, and she looks at Pepper with distrust and caution, not daring to avert her gaze to check on Tony, but Tony can tell for her posture that’s what she wants to do.

“Hey, Smurfette.” Tony calls, and it only goes to show how truly focused on him she is, because her eyes snap back to his with no question, not even a slight wavering of her guarded posture even with the use of the nickname. A warm surge of something that is far too close to affection crashes in tidal waves in his chest, and it leaks into his voice, curling malleable around his words. “It’s okay. We’re safe. There’s no threat.”

Nebula’s eyes gleam in recognition of the phrase, and with very deliberate movements, she removes herself from her tense stance and relaxes her shoulders.

Pepper leaves out a breath of relief, so low only Tony can hear it.

“I’m sorry.” Pepper says to Nebula, regretful. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You don’t scare me.” Nebula quips back, because that’s how she is, and Tony really isn’t surprised.

Despite the slight acidity in Nebula’s tone, Pepper does not step back, and Tony knows Nebula registers this as something noteworthy, because her eyes, even if they are pitch-black and guarded, twitch with stunned curiosity.

“I just—” Pepper starts, but then looks like decides against whatever she was going to say. “You said you helped Tony get back here?”

Nebula actually hasn’t said anything of substance to Pepper yet, but Nebula gives her a nod, in silent confirmation.

“Thank you.” Pepper breathes, shakily, and indecisively looks between them both, as if not knowing who to look. “I didn’t know what happened, or where you were, and I was so worried. Thank you.”

“He powered the ship so we could fly.” Nebula tells her, awkwardly, and Tony can tell how uncomfortable she is with Pepper’s open gratitude. When Pepper’s eyes come back to him, Nebula visibly relaxes, and Tony would feel bad about the idea of how foreign _sincere_ _gratitude_ is to Nebula if he didn’t know exactly what that felt like himself.

Pepper’s eyes are full of questions, but then, her eyes drop to the blue glow of the Reactor in Tony’s chest, and understanding passes in a flash through her eyes before it morphs into concern. “With that?”

“I’m fine.” Tony assures her again. He taps at the compartment twice, two quick beats of his fingers, and the only sound it makes is the dull impact of his digits on the casing. It doesn’t click anymore. “See? All set and good.”

 _Thanks to Nebula,_ he doesn’t say. He won’t throw the attention back at her like a hot potato – or a bomb, because apparently that’s how strongly Nebula feels about it. He knows she wouldn’t appreciate it.

Pepper looks like she’s having a real hard time with – with _everything._ With grasping what they’re saying, with organizing her thoughts and voicing her questions, looking so _tired_ Tony can’t help but reach for her hand, toying with her fingers and grazing the engagement ring. He looks up at her, and the way his heart stutters is just as powerful as it was years ago, and he wonders, when she looks back, if his eyes feel as unguarded and fond as he feels inside, if she can see the depth of his guilt, of his sorrow, if his body is even capable of translating in expression the nameless pit of sensation that storms within.

She sees _something_. But again, of course she does.

Her body turns back to him slowly, her eyes careful and apprehensive, and when she speaks, her voice is no more than a whisper:

“Where were you?”

“Space.” Tony says, and it’s a shitty answer, but he doesn’t think the more accurate one would make any difference. “I was – I was trying to keep the aliens from grabbing what they wanted.”

“And what did they want?” Pepper asks, winded. “God, Tony, do you know what happened out there? Have you seen—?”

“I have.” Tony interrupts, because he really doesn’t want to hear it, even if he’s aware that what he’s seen does not compare to two entire days living in this post-apocalyptic hell.

“No one knew what was going on.” Pepper tells him, the recollection painful, a deep, heavy sorrow thick as syrup in her voice. “It was all fine, and then people started to—“

She stops and blinks repeatedly, as if she’s holding back tears, and Tony runs the pad of his thumb over her wrist, caressing the blue veins on her pulse, and Pepper shudders as she takes in a deep breath, letting the air flow into her lungs, closing her eyes for just a second to reign her emotions back in and calm down.

Tony freezes, and, irrationally, almost asks her to stop.

(Stop.)

(The air—)

( _Stop._ )

But he isn’t quick enough.

“Who did this?” She demands the answer, even if her voice is soft.

(She needs to hear it. To make it real.)

Tony wishes he could keep her from this. That he could erase this from her mind and keep her safe from this tragedy, but he can’t.

He’d tried. He never succeeded.

“A guy named Thanos.” Tony says, darkly. “He had a gauntlet, something I had never seen before. It held these – These _stones_ , and Strange had one and we had to keep him from getting it.”

 _And I failed_ , it goes unsaid.

“But he—” Tony chokes on air, and he coughs a little, trying uselessly to get rid of the oddly tight feeling in his throat. “He needed _six_ and he already had _four._ It was too late.”

Self-conscious, feeling the pinprick stinging of shame burning hot on his neck, Tony looks over Pepper to look for Nebula, only to see her gone and, after a quick sweep over the room with wide eyes, nowhere to be found.

He would panic, but he doesn’t think he needs to, not with Nebula. And also, Tony thinks she probably meant to give them some privacy, which Tony deeply appreciates.

He’ll ask Nebula where she ran off to later. She’s probably listening in anyway, from the way she’s so wary of everyone. Tony doesn’t really care right now.

He can’t muster the strength to be concerned about something so unthreatening as Nebula. The only thing filling his thoughts is Pepper’s warmth – and beneath it, the looming memory of a fist, of six bright stones, and an enemy far too powerful for him to beat.

“What did he do, Tony?” Pepper asks, and the idea of saying it out loud again stings in him like a physical blow, drilling painfully into his temples, making him close his eyes and his face twist in a grimace.

He pulls Pepper a little closer just as she takes a step forward of her own, and holds her by the waist and lays his head on her stomach, his grimy forehead against her rumpled white shirt, that’s already ruined by soot and dirt, and he sighs deep and heavy as the warmth of her radiates into his skin gentle and comforting, while the entire world around him feels so _cold._

“You’re burning up.” She tells him, but her tone is surprisingly unhurried. She sounds _exhausted._ She sounds… _defeated._ She wraps her arms around his shoulders and leans forward, hugging him, bringing him closer even if that means she’s squishing his face into her stomach, and Tony doesn’t want to back up, not even to breathe, because he doesn’t _want_ to breathe, he doesn’t want to do _anything_ besides have Pepper in his arms and pretend the world _isn’t_ collapsing all around him.

How many times have they done this? How many times, since the first time Tony could find the strength to utter the words and admit there was something wrong with him, with his head, and he couldn’t find a way to let it go or let it out? Not unless he was creating more, arming himself more, nearly to the teeth?

It’s been over five years.

_Fuck, it’s been so long._

So long Tony has been haunted by this, by the idea that something out there was coming to get them, descending from space to kill them all, and every single day had been a struggle to get over his panic attacks and his paranoia, to try to be better, to _forget_ , to make himself believe he was _wrong_ —

Only to be proved he was _not._

Tony has never wanted to be wrong more in his entire _life._ Never.

“I lost Spiderman.” Tony croaks in a miserable voice, forcing his eyes to stay open as he says, because the memories will flicker behind his eyelids otherwise.

And Pepper _knows._ Pepper _hears_ what he’s truly saying, because she knows, and she knows how fucking _heavy_ these words feel in Tony’s lips, in his beaten-up heart, and she knows what he means.

Or he thinks she does. In part. Maybe fully. Tony isn’t sure. She teased him about it once, just once, but it was a joke.

But still – Pepper knows him like no one else does.

Tony had—

Fuck—

Tony had mentioned he wanted _children_ to her. Or he _heavily implied._ Or he _desperately hoped._

The relation is so obvious. The source. It doesn’t matter if Pepper hadn’t seen much of Peter beside an introduction and hearing Tony talk about him like a proud old man, but it’s _impossible_ not to meet Peter, not to hear Tony talk about him and make the connection.

“Oh, Tony.” Pepper shakes around him, shivering. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“He took half of everything.” Tony mutters, hauntingly, needing desperately to put it all out before all the words got caught in his throat and choked him. “Plants, animals, _people_. Half of it, everything.”

“Everything?” Pepper blinks rapidly, confused. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

That’s apparently not enough.

“People are _dying_ , Tony.” Pepper says, _as if Tony doesn’t know,_ as if he hasn’t _seen_ it for himself. Her hands find his hair and squeeze, not too gently, forcing his head back so she can look at him, her eyes frantic with worry. “Almost the entire state has no energy anymore. Soon water stations will stop too, if they haven’t already. People are gathering in hospitals because some of them still have light, but—”

Tony’s breath hiccups for a second.

Oh. Power cuts. No electricity. Severed connections.

No access to water.

(Hoarding of food.)

(Blocked roads. Destroyed buildings. Accidents.)

_(Ashes.)_

He – He hadn’t thought about that. The Compound is self-sustained. The tech Tony implemented on the project was even better than the Tower’s, created to last for over five years. But outside—

“There are so many people _hurt_.” Pepper keeps talking, completely unaware that Tony’s brain tuned her completely off for a moment. “Car crashes, accidents. Someone said a _plane_ landed in the middle of the buildings not far from where I was.”

Pepper shakes her head, uselessly trying to dispel dark thoughts.

“We didn’t know if it was going to happen again.” She confesses, tense. “No one knows what happened. We didn’t know what caused this, and everyone was afraid it would _keep happening_ until we were all gone—”

_Shit._

Tony has the horrible realization that she is right. No one down here knew what was going on. When people started to turn into dust, no one knew the cause or the pattern, or how it worked, so they had no way of knowing if it would _keep_ happening. Pepper looks like she hasn’t slept in days and she probably _hasn’t_ , afraid something would happen as she did, that she would be gone even before she realized it.

Tony grabs her thighs, because that’s the first thing he can grip from his lowered position, and he feels like a beggar kneeling at her feet, pleading for mercy, but instead of asking for relief, Tony breeds _chaos_ and _hurt_ , like a monster; Because what passes his lips, instead of an apology or an assurance, is this:

“It’s worse than you can imagine.”

Pepper looks back at him with horror, mouth gaping in shock, and Tony asks her wryly, wishing he could _shut up_ and stop this, but it’s too late. It _happened._

“When was the last time you’ve seen the sun?” He asks, somberly.

Pepper’s head immediately turns to the side, towards the glass wall, and she stares at the heavy clouds and the gloomy day with a frown so deep that it looks like it hurts. “What do you mean, it’s day—”

“The _sun._ ” Tony presses. “When did you last see the sun?”

Pepper’s eyes go unfocused, lost deep inside her memories, and Tony knows the question is probably much harder to answer than it should be, that she’s probably completely out of touch with time, that the hours blurred together so messily in her panic and anxiety that the past, the present and the future are no more than muddy water, than grime and mud, a mess that’s almost impossible to clean and make clear again.

“Days ago.” She finally breathes, with only the slightest hint of doubt in her voice. “The day the spaceship came. It’s been like this since then.”

Gray and closed, so heavy the air feels solid, and—

(Cold, cold, _cold._ )

Tony gulps around nothing, digging his teeth into his bottom lip so strongly he nearly busts it open, before releasing it roughly and groaning:

“It’s the dust, Pepper.” Tony says. “The ashes. They’re blocking the sun.”

Pepper gives him a look, as if she doesn’t understand. But she does. Tony can see it in her eyes.

They go wider and wider, her frown deepening and her mouth gaping, emitting no sound. It’s that delay. It’s that unconscious refusal to admit, to connect the dots and allow the realization to sink in totally, trying to stave off the inevitable.

It won’t work.

It never does.

“The air is full of them. We’re breathing it. It’s— It’s blocking sunlight.”

“Oh my God.” Pepper gasps, putting a hand on her mouth, her face going impossibly paler. “Tony, you can’t be— Oh _God!_ ”

“It’s over three hundred tons of chemical compound in the atmosphere in less than twenty-four hours.” Tony explains, knowing that Pepper will follow along, all of her familiarity with the environment-friendly policy of SI being twisted into something horrifying right before her eyes. “Not counting plants, animals, and the crap that got loose in accidents. Smoke, fire—” He waves his hands dismissively, although the weight on his shoulders is anything but irrelevant.

And because that weight is so heavy, like he is holding the entire universe at his very back, like the dawn of the realization is a physical thing on his spine, Tony mutters, flatly:

“We’re going extinct.”

Because it’s true. If he doesn’t find a way to stop this, that’s where they’re headed. Complete annihilation.

Pepper walks backward until she’s out of his reach, shaking her head helplessly, and Tony watches miserably as the full extent of the damage fully registers into her, and she puts her back to him and walks to the counter of the bar, pacing, hiding her face from Tony very much on purpose, distressed. She lays her hands on the counter, her shoulders hunched, and _breathes_ and _breathes_ , and Tony can _see_ how it _doesn’t help_ , because every single one is a bitter reminder and a terrible curse.

The silence stretches between them, painful.

Tony doesn’t break it no matter how hard he wants to, because he doesn’t know what to say. He wats to get up and hug her, but it wouldn’t do any good.

All he can do is wait and watch, which is the most _painfully ironic_ thing that could happen right now.  

“There must be something we can do.” Pepper says, injecting strength into her voice, the words gaining weight and sturdiness upon her, even as they strain her throat, even as they drag themselves heavy out her mouth. “There has to be.”

She turns suddenly, her eyes bright and determined, even when clouded with sadness, and she stares at Tony, giving him no way of opposing to her.  He does give her the tiniest of nods, the movement jerky and unsure, but the small _yeah_ he utters in reply losing itself in the air, too soft to be heard.

Because it’s a given. Of course there has to be a way. If there isn’t, Tony will _create_ one. He won’t allow the purple bastard to get away with this, he _won’t_ , because Tony has already saved the world once and he’ll do it again, no matter how many times he must.

Tony will carry the entire damned burned by himself if he has to, if that means that no one else suffers the consequences anymore.

He doesn’t know yet how can he possibly fix this, but he’ll think of something. He always does.

Fear and anger where always Tony’s greatest motivators.

“What about Jim?” Pepper asks suddenly, surprising him. “And Bruce, do you know what happened to them? And what about that – that man at the park? The one with the portals? Can’t he help?”

And Tony lets out a small sight and says, “Rhodey’s fine.”, and Pepper also breathes a softer sound, her shoulders easing just a little bit, a small dose of relief easing into her body. “He’s on his way. Bruce’s with him.”

Pepper makes a pause. “And the other guy? From the park?”

Tony shakes his head sorrowfully.

(What about the others?)

Tony stops.

_The others—_

Pepper nods minutely, subdued, and starts walking closer again, her steps silent and soft on the cold floor; Tony jerks out of his rapidly darkening thoughts when she’s back in his personal space, close enough to touch, her hands closed into anxious fists and her fingers twisting and rubbing uncomfortably, but her eyes so, _so determined_ and clear.

“We can fix this, Tony. We’ll think of something.” She says, and it’s a comfort as much as it is a prophecy with no chance of failure. “There has to be a way.”

“Has to be.” Tony agrees.

It’s true.

It has to be.

Because they have no other choice.

Tony will have to fix this. There is no alternative. There is nothing else that matters. It’s either fix it, or die trying.

Because the only other option is to wait and die anyway.

He refuses to do that second one.

( _There’s the mission—_ )

( _and nothing else._ )

His hands squeeze Pepper’s waist, his thumbs sweeping soft caresses on her ribs through her shirt, feeling the way her chest expands and eases softly with her breath, the _life_ in her he’s still lucky to have. He closes his eyes and he _pretends_ , just a little, just a small, stolen moment of fabricated peace, that he will get to keep this. He breathes in deep, wishing she still smelled like her favorite perfume and not like smoke and anxiety, and pretends the world outside is bright in sunlight and warm like the summer. His head twitches and he resists the urge to nuzzle at her belly, knowing that the touch would give away too much, would open a fucking Pandora’s box of thoughts he’s not willing to fight through now.

He does this because he knows there’s a chance he won’t have it later.

A huge chance. A _practically unavoidable_ chance.

And Tony won’t be able to stop it. Not any more than he was every single time before this.

He knows this dance like the back of his hand. He’ll try – He’ll try his damn hardest not to let it escape his control, he’ll bend himself into the impossible, he’ll do everything he can to keep Pepper alive and safe.

But sometimes, that means something horrible. It means to lose her.

It has happened, over and over, so many times before. Tony can practically write a manual on it now. _How to continuously disappoint the love of your life, even when you know exactly what you’re doing wrong_ ; Long title, maybe it wouldn’t be very marketable – but it _would_ be completely accurate.

Not this time. Tony will try to stop it this time. He’ll rack his brain out, he’ll try, because that’s all he can do, with odds like these.

And yet, he hugs her, savors, and pretends.

Uselessly wishing that this old dance, somehow, ended differently this time.

 

Tony thinks he loses time.

He’ll only realize this later; Much, much later, because when it happens, he’s too out of it to notice. He’s still in Pepper’s arms, as if no more than mere seconds have passed, but suddenly, a voice comes from above, urgent and loud, and it snaps Tony’s eyes wide open like waking him brutally from a deep slumber, and he jolts so bad his ass completely leaves the cushion, and in consequence, he nearly knocks Pepper over in his haste.

“Boss.” FRIDAY calls, urgently. “I’ve detected an aircraft nearing the grounds. It is approaching at high speed, and it seems directed to the building.”

“Rhodey.” Tony whispers, and gets up slowly, reminding himself _he has to_ move slowly because his wound is starting to throb from all the careless movements he’s been making when he still should be in bed rest.

“Is that your team?” Nebula asks, mutedly, and Tony whips around fast, completely ignoring his own warnings; And now, instead of hurting on his side, he hurts on his neck, when a muscle pulls too tight and stings all the way up to his brain.

Oh, that’s gonna hurt like a bitch when he finally lays down to sleep somewhere. He can already imagine the pain flaring stiff on his muscles when he wakes up.

Tony hadn’t even heard her come back. How long has she been here? And where did she came from? He doesn’t even know where she went while she was away.

Not like it matters right now, but Tony is curious. And to be very honest, Tony is kind of concerned for Nebula.

They haven’t really talked. Much. Or in any situation where they’re not both half mad with anxiety and pressure. And there Tony was, soaking into the comfort of his fiancé and patiently waiting for his best friend to arrive, while Nebula had been standing nearby watching, _alone._

Tony wonders if Gamora was all she had.

Tony wonders if Nebula would hug her, even if she seems less than amenable to something so emotional as a hug.

Not because Nebula has no feelings, because Tony knows that is not true – and he has known it for quite a while now, ever since the Benatar, the salty chips, and a steady arm around his back –, but because Nebula likes to pretend she’s all metal and strength, no cracks, no wounds, no soft spots, when she’s really not.

Tony wishes he could be the type of person that can offer her that comfort, but he really doesn’t know how.

If he tries to hug her Nebula will probably try to cut off his arms.

(Better not to push.)

 _Is that your team?_ , she asked.

He doesn’t know.

It’s Rhodey. Rhodey is coming. Rhodey is, without any doubt, his team.

_But the others—_

He doesn’t even know if the others are here too. Rhodey never told him, and Tony never asked, like the damned coward he is. He was trying his hardest not to think about it until it was absolutely necessary, to be honest – and the _not knowing_ is _awful_ , and he regrets deeply that he didn’t steel himself enough for the very real possibility that they _might_ be arriving with Rhodey, and Tony will have to deal with them despite being totally unprepared for it.

_Great._

_His team. Ex-team._

_Who knows what the hell they are._

Tony realizes he can’t find in himself the strength to answer Nebula’s question, whatever answer that would be, mind going too fast to process words – so he doesn’t. He simply stands there for a second, barely hesitating, before grabbing Pepper by the hand and making a gesture towards the side at Nebula, and says:

“C’mon.” He calls to them both, and walks back to the elevator, heading to the landing pad once again, unwilling to stay seated wallowing in misery for one second longer.

Outside, the day is turning into night.

He has no idea what time it is. When the world is too dark, any ray of light that goes out feels like the entire sun – and when it’s too cold, it could be midday and it would still feel like the deepest hours of the night. The coldest nights in Tony’s life were the nights in Afghanistan, the desert empty and vast, bathed in darkness, the humid walls of the cave so chilly and the dirt and sand beneath his feet so solid and unforgiving it could almost pass off as concrete instead. Tony had been attached to a damned car battery and he had never felt so cold. The waterboarding had made everything even worse, because they left him soaking wet after, hair, skin, and clothes, and it’s a wonder Tony didn’t die of hypothermia even with the small fire they had to keep themselves warm.

This night is quickly becoming just as cold. It’s a terrifying thought.

It’s probably not the time it should be getting darker. Tony honestly can’t tell. The clouds closer to the horizon are turning almost black as the sky goes dark, the dim light that weakly illuminated the world fading as if slowly being hidden behind heavy curtains, a slow descent into oppressing shade, and there they stand, in the open, exposed, being swallowed by ice and ash.

Tony looks up, to the horizon, and _there it is._

The Quinjet.

There it is.

Tony hadn’t realized how long it has been since he last saw it until now. It’s not like he needed it, personally. The armor can take him anywhere he wanted to go, the same thing for Rhodey, and Vision could just fly. Pete never went anywhere beyond the borders of the state – not unless he was sneaking out during school trips –, so what use would Tony have for a jet?

Pepper uses the private plane.

Maria Hill might’ve liked to have it around, for security and practicality purposes, maybe – but Maria Hill left to find Fury, and Tony hadn’t protested against it, and that was it.

Seeing the Quinjet now stirs something odd inside Tony’s chest, even past the dread, even past the anxiety; something a little tender, a little sad, something he’ll push down, far, far away, and never allow himself to think ever again.

The armor is no longer on the landing pad so when the Quinjet finally reaches the building and hovers above the platform, it drifts lower and lower smoothly, not a single waver in its balance or trajectory, so elegant it’s nearly a mockery – but the swirl of the wind and the dust are hitting his skin like lashes of a whip, violent and cold, blowing the dirt directly into his dry, tired eyes. Tony squints miserably and turns his head, hissing, even if his eyes keep trying to snap back, keep trying to follow the movement until the Quinjet has landed, until he _sees_ Rhodey coming outside. He insanely wants to step closer, because even the necessary wait for the jet to lad feels like too much, like a purposeful taunt, but he can’t, and so he _refuses_ to avert his gaze before he can see his best friend right in front of him, _alive._

And it’s _loud._

The sound of the turbines has never felt so loud.

Has it always been like this? Tony had made so many adjustments to it when Fury had asked for some help with the designs. Did he really make them so loud?

(No.)

(The world is just too quiet.)

The jet touches the ground and stops with only the slightest bounce, the wheels sturdy and reliable, and although the ground does not move at all under its weight, irrationally, Tony _feels_ its pressure, in his gut, like having it _here_ its so real and so tangible that it somehow turns itself into sensation, into solid, and it lays heavily right atop of his stomach, dragging it down low almost to his feet.

The ramp starts to open with a loud gush of air, all the heavy locks disarming in perfect synchrony, and every inch it lowers, the tighter Tony’s body feels.

“ _Tony!_ ” Rhodey’s voice – _Rhodey’s voice_ – calls loudly from the open ramp, from the darkness inside the jet, and Tony watches, transfixed, with his heart stuck in his throat, as the doors open wider and wider, until the weak daylight seeps enough into the inside of the jet that he can see a figure standing there, shoulders wide and tense,

_Rhodey._

And it’s completely involuntary, a reflex so instinctive it’s nearly primal, but the feeling that comes over him, immediately, is a pure, unshakable, completely raw feeling of—

_Safe._

( _I’m safe._ )

Tony sees, through hazy eyes and with gasping breaths, that Rhodey is stepping off the jet and running in his direction, and Tony wants to run towards him too, but his legs feel stuck, like he has no joints, a mannequin about to dismantle itself on the floor, his thighs and calves so tense and stiff he might give himself a cramp even if he’s just _standing there._

But it can’t be. It can’t be, because Tony _hears_ the roaring, desperate cry of _“Rhodes!”_ that echoes through the air and it sounds like him, it is him, so Tony is not shutting down. Not yet.

He still can’t move.

Tony is—

The last time Rhodey ran towards him like that, Tony had been on his knees in the sand, chest open and body exhausted and dehydrated, a hand raised into the air, and a laugh escaping his lips like pieces of glass stuck in his teeth, cracked and broken and bleeding and sharp.

He had breathed deep in relief and it _hurt_ , he had dropped to his knees and it _hurt,_ he had _laughed,_ and it _hurt._

And now it does too.

Tony can see the yellow at the periphery of his vision, suddenly and not at all, the rough feeling of sand scratching between his fingers and under his nails, and he _swears_ he can feel the sun _scorching_ on his skin, but that’s not right.

This isn’t Afghanistan; but the déjà vu is _so strong_ that it locks him still, and Tony can only watch.

Rhodey runs, and Tony feels overwhelmed, feels himself shaking with the explosive mix of feelings over seeing him alive, seeing him standing, being _alive_ to see him; And the nauseating feeling of reliving again, in less than three days, so many details about his captivity, about his _beginning_ , so disturbingly similar to his _ending._

“You _son of a bitch_.” Rhodey growls when he gets close, and closer, and closer, and without slowing down his momentum, he crashes into Tony and brings him in for a hug, tight and strong, his hands warm and rough and secure at Tony’s back, capable of protecting him from anything. “I knew you weren’t dead.”

He says it in that tone – That tone that is not a lie, but the desperate desire to make something true, the tone all hopeless people use when they cling to an impossibility and refuse to accept any other option.

And Tony hugs him back fiercely, slotting his chin at the slope of Rhodey’s shoulder, uncaring if his unkempt goatee will scrape his neck or face, and _sighs_ in relief.

His Rhodey.

His Rhodey is alive.

“If you do this again—” Rhodey keeps saying, sounding _distraughtly angry_ , and if Tony didn’t know better, he’d think he’s about to get his ass kicked. “If you do this again, I swear I’m going to follow you into whatever hole you get yourself into and I’m going to kill you myself, you understand?”

Tony, against all odds, lets out a laugh, breathy and startled, sounding almost like a bark, and even if his heart squeezes with somber emotions, his eyes flicker with mirth.

“Good to see you, brother.” Tony says, because he’s an _asshole_ , and he knows Rhodey feels the words deep down into his bones, because Tony feels the way his shoulders and back twitch with a sharp inhale.

“Don’t try me, Tony.” Rhodey threatens, not meaning it even a little bit, and Tony can’t do anything but smile against his skin. “You know I’ll do it.”

“Yeah, I know you would.”

Rhodey huffs out harshly, only a suggestion of a laugh, and squeezes him tighter.

“You can’t do that to me, man.” Rhodey mumbles, voice dripping with emotion, and Tony feels it in his heart with a pang of affection so deep and unconditional it hurts, and he chuckles wetly – but makes no promises.

He doesn’t really feel like lying right now.

Over Rhodey’s shoulder, Tony sees Bruce – _Bruce!_ – staggering down the ramp in quick steps, arms flailing to keep himself upright with his hasty rhythm, eyes flicking between his own feet and Tony in Rhodey’s arms, and Tony thinks he’ll end up falling over in his clumsy trajectory if he’s not careful.

When he catches sight of Nebula, Tony can clearly see the way his steps falter and he mutters something to himself, eyes widening, and he _visibly_ reconsiders continuing to move closer, as if he’s afraid Nebula will pounce him if he does.

But he doesn’t stop. Whatever it is about Nebula that made him hesitate – and it could be a whole lot –, Bruce shrugs it off almost immediately and keeps walking, stepping heavily on the ground when he gets out, as if he can finally trust what’s beneath him with his weight, and he all but jogs in Tony’s direction just as Rhodey did, hard, deep lines of worry etched on his face, jittery anxiety so clear it ages him years and years with just the creases on his forehead.

Tony is about to reach a hand out for him, when Rhodey steps back and moves to Pepper, giving her a hug just as tight as the one he gave Tony, when a movement _behind_ Bruce catches his eye and Tony suddenly goes very, _very still._

 

( _They’re here._ )

 

 

They’re here.

 

 

Tony is not ready to do this.

Not at all. Not even a little bit.

He’s not ready. He never will be.

It’s been years. _Years._ It’s been _so long._

Tony has—

Tony has imagined how this moment would go. Over and over and over again. He tried not to, but he did – and right now, despite how they made rounds incessantly inside his brain in those nights went the memories became just a little too much, when he looked over his shoulder expecting to see a person standing there and found only emptiness, every single one of those fantasies are scattered and scratchy, itching at the corners of his mind with uncomfortable static, a radio transmission too broken to rely any information across. Even if he tries to grasp it, they just melt between his fingertips, slippery and untrustworthy, running away from him. He can’t comprehend anything but the _feelings_ they stir on him, the irrational, profound, knee-jerking reaction, all those feelings that make him feel like he’s about to expel everything he has inside him even if he hasn’t eaten in days.

It makes him sick. It makes him tense.

(It makes him scared.)

He’s not… He’s not ready to deal with this now.

He has imagined it soft and kind. He has imagined it hard and angry and bitter. He has imagined it mute, and he has imagined it loud and roaring, and relieved, and resentful, and grateful and tired and desperate – and all possibilities in between, and none of them had ever felt right. He’s not sure what he had wanted to feel. He had wanted to feel different things at different times. Or maybe… Maybe, a small part of him, had wanted it to never happen at all.

It might be easier. Maybe.

Easier to push it all away.

He has thought about it a lot. For a very long time. But to this day, Tony still doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, if he was ever presented with the necessity to reconnect with his… _ex-teammates_ – Christ, that sounds _so stupid_ –, if the day when they would all be brought together in desperation ever arrived.

Now it was. Now, that day is here.

And he still doesn’t know what to do.

Tony sees them, almost as if he’s watching this all from a television, like an out-of-body experience, as his body locks up and the breath that leaves him sounds like his soul letting out an anguished sound, confused and lost, merely a feeling, with no sound. It’s shocking how his nerves can be so itchy and tender but his body so numb, how can relief and dread entwine together like two threads that look exactly alike, and he can’t tell which one is which, or where one ends and the other begins. Maybe they’re not separate at all. Maybe it is just one long, inescapable wave of indivisible emotions, a giant dam of it overflowing after too much pressure applied from the other side, a _cage_ being burst open when the beast inside of it decides it will no longer be kept in shackles.

Tony has always been very good at suppressing things. It is a skill to have, for someone who was led a life like his.

Compartmentalize. Detach.

To take something painful and twist it into so many directions he can’t recognize it anymore. Until he can use it as fuel, and not as a chain.

Tony is good at that.

(Just not good enough.)

(Not every single time.)

 

He sees Natasha first.

She’s right at the front, her posture fragile as Tony has never seen before, shoulders hitched up and face open in unguarded anxiety, and it’s _so easy_ for Tony’s heart just to squeeze tight with a wave of complicated feelings, a rush of warmth mixing in with wariness, the lines between all the different personas Natasha has presented to him since they first met blurring together like words smudging in ink across a page.

She’s blonde. He doesn’t know why that fact registers in his mind as something notable, but it does.

Maybe that’s just his mind being nitpicky. Trying to find reasons to make itself believe he is, in fact, just _imagining_ this is happening.

Tony looks at her and she looks back, and for a moment – a wild, incomprehensible moment –, Tony damn nearly thinks he is _actually_ hallucinating this. Because what he’s seeing feels weird. He feels weird. This was never supposed to happen, Tony has _never_ seen Natasha look as disheveled or as concerned as she looks right now, and he can’t help but wonder if he has finally lost his mind and he just hasn’t figured it out yet.

(It would explain the blue lady, that’s for sure.)

But he knows it’s not. Deep down, he knows it’s not.

He _knows_ this is real.

That woman up there, staring at him, pale as a freaking ghost—

That’s Natasha Romanov.

After the world finally drained out all the strength it possibly could from her.

“Tony?” Rhodey calls, softly, and Tony blinks drowsily as he steps back and stares at his best friend, his eyesight blurry and unfocused like a bad camera lens, and the look of concern in Rhodey’s face is so compassionate and familiar that it aches in Tony’s chest, the sort of comfort only Rhodey could ever give him, in the right measure, at the right time.

He knows that Tony is staring over his shoulder. He hasn’t turned back, but he can see it in Tony’s face.

Rhodey’s hands find his arms, closing in around his biceps with all that military strength, secure and warm and protective, and his grip says everything Rhodey never had much ability to put into proper words.

 _Don’t worry_ , it says. _I got you._

Tony isn’t sure what he should do.

He isn’t sure what he _wants_ to do either.

He can’t move, exactly. He tries to, he tries to talk or to do something, anything, like taking a step back or raising a hand or even blinking, but it’s like his brain isn’t sending down the right commands to his limbs because every single motion Tony makes, no matter how small, feels like it’s in slow motion. Like moving through molasses. He and Natasha stare at each other, both of them looking like deer in the headlights, and Tony can’t do _anything_ but to wait, to stay so still he looks like a statue in the middle of the damned roof.

The last time he saw her, Natasha snarled in his face.

She called him egotistic. She walked away from him.

(She switched sides.)

(Again.)

Tony hadn’t been surprised. Hurt? Maybe. _Maybe._ It’s not like… Everything had been going so shitty already, so yeah, it _sucked_ when she disappeared, and it shouldn’t have mattered, not when he had already known it would happen. It’s just how she is, isn’t it? It’s fine. It’s fine. And Tony had deserved it, her anger. He taunted her. He pushed when he shouldn’t have.

He’d known. He won’t pretend otherwise.

Tony had known. She’s a spy, she’s very… She always will find a way out. The Accords were going to push her into an uncomfortable situation, and she weaseled out before things got ugly. Tony wishes he could have done that, really.

So he understands. He does. He’s not angry about it, not anymore. Not like he was, years ago.

But—

The part of him that’s… _guarded_ , the voice that has been carved into him since he was young, this _thing_ that grew with him and warns him at every second of the day that he should keep them all at bay, never let them get too close – this voice, from beyond the haze of Tony’s nebulous feelings, can still find the strength to tell him that _maybe, if he is smart, he’ll have learned not to let this one get too close either._

However, Natasha steals the options out of his hands, and decides the next move for herself.

She blinks once and it’s like she’s suddenly awake, and strides towards him with a purpose, completely ignoring how stiff and tense he gets at every meter she gets closer, her objective the only thing in her mind even though Tony has no idea what that objective is yet. Even if her weapons aren’t drawn, Tony feels the almost overwhelming urge to protect himself, to step away or to cross his arms over his chest in a fighting stance, or to tap twice in his Reactor and suit himself up just in case—

Natasha by-passes Rhodey with no finesse or politeness, nearly knocking her shoulder against him in her haste, and she all but _pulls_ Tony into her arms, and Tony only has the time to let out a shocked gasp before he realizes she is _hugging him_ , _hard_ , with the same fierceness she uses to _fight_ , and Tony lets out an undignified sound of exertion when he practically forces all the air out of his lungs with how tightly she squeezes his ribs.

“Careful, I’m injured here—” Tony says before he can properly think about what is exactly coming out of his mouth.

“You’ll live.” Natasha snaps back, and it’s not just a rebuttal – it’s a _demand_ , far too forceful and unyielding to sound like the joke that, in another lifetime, it would have been.

“Not if you squeeze me until my stitches pop open, I won’t.” Tony thoughtlessly replies, the banter so natural that it flows out of him without any second thoughts.

His hands hover on Natasha’s waist, unsure if they should touch or not, if he should give in to the unexpected affection – although it does feel more like a brawl than a hug for Tony’s poor tired bones –, because he doesn’t _know_ what it would mean if he hugged her back.

Tony doesn’t hate her.

He really doesn’t. But he – he doesn’t trust her either. Not anymore.

Still, he misses her. God, he misses her, and isn’t that the most ridiculous thing ever?

Natasha had weaseled her way into his life so long ago that Tony had been used to have her here, to have her back and trust her with his' too, to trust her to be clever and sharp and damn sneaky, even knowing that could – _would_ – bite him in the ass someday. Tony’s playboy days had been long gone when he first met her, but that wasn’t the point, was it? Is just that she was _good._ She was everything Tony liked to have around, but he shouldn’t, but Tony had never been really good at keeping danger at a safe distance.

Natasha had always, _always_ been dangerous to have around. For the very same reasons Tony loved to have her around.

He had never wanted her as a lover, not really. Tony is reckless, but Tony isn’t stupid. She isn’t attracted to him like that, and even if she is very beautiful, that wasn’t why Tony liked her. But she was bold. She called out his bullshit, she was independent and dangerous, she was _wary_ and carefully closed-off, and Tony had felt all of that so deeply, had felt it resonate so loudly into his own soul, made him want to _reach_ out, and he dared to think of her as family.

It hurts to remind himself now that maybe he shouldn’t.

Because he doesn’t really know if he knows Natasha anymore.

If he ever did in the first place.

(But—)

“I’m glad you’re here, Tony.” Natasha whispers in his ear, barely there, but the meaning of the words is so raw and truthful that it flows into him like a living thing, and before he knows it, his hands are closing in, and he’s hugging her back, even if it’s shaky, even if it’s still not sure.

He hugs her back, and he doesn’t think about what it means besides the obvious – _he’s glad she’s here too_ –, and far too soon, she steps back and is gone from his arms.

Before Tony can even process the shift of his emotions and thoughts when she does so, the presence close to her registers in his fuzzy mind, and Tony’s eyes dart up a little wide, and, to be completely honest, a little shocked.

“Thor.” Tony exhales, winded. “I didn’t know you were—"

_Here._

Because he hasn’t been. Bruce had said he’d been gone. He hadn’t known. Thor—

How long has it been since Tony last saw Thor? Jesus, it’s been a really long time.

Since _Ultron._ Holy shit.

Thor has been gone looking for the Infinity Stones. He’s been gone for years, while they were down here, fighting over pieces of paper and wanted men, and when that realization drops hard on Tony’s head, he feels like the biggest asshole in the entire universe. Thor had been out there, and Tony had almost forgotten, had almost _made_ himself forget, made himself pretend the threat wasn’t out there so he could live his blissful, peaceful life, making everyone around him believe he wasn’t paranoid about the imminent threat anymore. All the while, Thor had been gone – doing the work Tony should have done. Keeping watch. Getting ready. Tony should have kept trying, even after what happened to Ultron; but he didn’t, he _couldn’t_ , and he left all that crap on Thor’s shoulders and moved on.

And some shit has gone down. It very obviously has. Not only because the world is ending, or because the stones are gone – but Thor has _short hair,_ and _different colored eyes,_ and a huge fucking _axe._

_What the fuck._

What the hell happened to him since he left? Tony is actually too afraid to ask.

Thor looks _heartbroken._

Tony didn’t even know Thor could look like this. The guy was just—

Thor had always been as bright as lightning that preceded him, boasting and strong, mighty and comforting, all at once. A presence larger than life, that no matter how he posed himself, gentle or careful or angry – because Tony had seen him angry, too –, but even then, Thor never, ever, looked _small._

He’s still incredibly tall and massive. That is not the issue.

The issue is that he _feels_ small. Subdued. Muted.

A thunder that roars too far away, muffled, with no one around to hear it.

“It’s good to see you, Stark.” Thor says, the amicable tone he always carries with him damp and dragged by a heavy rasp, like he has been swallowing rocks and shards of glass in his spare time.

“You too.” Tony replies, because the sheer shock he’s feeling won’t allow him to think of anything else less idiotic to say.

Tony realizes how awkward this is.

_Glad you’re here. Good to see you._

Painfully common pleasantries. It sounds like the kind of bullshit Tony used to say to investors in charity balls and auctions, with plastic smiles and a too-tight handshake, to people he despised or didn’t care for at all.

Is this what people say, when the end of the world arrives?

Maybe. Maybe it’s either that or _oh God, no_ or maybe _It can’t be._ Maybe it’s the most hopeful greeting he could hope for.

He’s glad Thor is here. He’s glad he’s alive, even if he doesn’t look exactly _alright_ ; But no one really is, isn’t it? But he’s alive. Tony hadn’t been sure, because Bruce’s and Mantis’ accounts contradicted themselves, and by now, Tony is constantly expecting the worst. But Thor made it, and Tony happy to know it. He and Tony had never been close, definitely not enough to hug it out like Rhodey and Bruce have, but Tony cares about him, and wishes he wasn’t going through this as much as everyone else.

He wonders if Thor lost anybody.

And then, he remembers Jane Foster, and remembers that FRIDAY is still running the search for survivors and has yet to give him a report on who made it and who didn’t – and suddenly, he feels a little nauseous, because he doesn’t know what will happen if the final result comes up negative, and how Thor will respond to that information if he doesn’t know it already.

Because Tony absolutely will not be the person that brings that up to him, he averts his gaze and desperately searches for something else to focus on, feeling way too awkward and guilty to just keep staring at Thor’s mismatched eyes, so full with sadness already.

He doesn’t need to go far. Bruce is right next to Thor, watching Tony, wearing baggy clothes and looking like he’s been put in a blender and left there for hours.

“Where did you _go_?” Bruce asks, rattled, voice pitched with fidgeting nerves, “and _why_ do you have a blue robot with you?”

“I didn’t make her, if that’s what you’re asking.” Tony immediately replies.

That answer doesn’t reassure Bruce as Tony expected it would. In fact, it seems to make him more nervous.

“What the hell happened out there, Tony?”

Tony’s mouth opens loosely, no words forthcoming, even if he _does_ want to give Bruce some reassuring or explanation; When something small and fast passes behind him, scaring Tony, and—

( _Wait,_ that is actually _a raccoon_ right there.)

_What?_

What the hell. Rhodey hadn’t been joking. That thing is actually a raccoon, walking upright and wearing clothes.

_What is going on?_

Tony scraps the whole fumbling for an explanation thing almost immediately, distracted by the sudden need to _ask questions,_ the confusion too great to be kept at bay, even by the overwhelming feelings stirring inside his chest – because _honestly_ , Bruce is worried about Nebula when they suddenly have a humanoid _raccoon_ with them, as if that’s not just as weird? Maybe more?

But before he can get a single word out to inquire about it, a rustle of movement catches at the corner of his eye, from far away, over Bruce’s shoulder, and Tony turns his head instinctively, totally forgetting himself, the automatic response to stiffen up and prepare himself for an attack too raw and real for him to stop it, and everything that happens after that is just a blur.

If he had been paying attention, he maybe wouldn’t have done that.

Maybe he would have forced himself to stay with his shoulders down, faking ease, and would have had the chance to remind himself that _he can do this._

But he’s not. He’s not paying attention.

He’s not, so what happens is—

The last person inside the Quinjet steps out, like he’s walking into his _death_ , and Tony’s jaw clicks shut so tight he thinks he cracks a tooth or two with the force of the movement.

Rogers.

The raccoon walks by Tony and walks towards Nebula, and Tony doesn’t give a shit.

 _That’s_ how _tense_ he is.

It’s _Rogers._

_Jesus fuck._

Great. Honestly, no, this is fucking _great._

_Shit._

What happens in Tony’s chest in that moment is not something he can describe. How could he – what words would be able to express the depth of what happens to his brain and his heart when he thinks of Steve Rogers, the man that – the one person that can manage not to be in Tony’s life for _years_ and still _ruin it_ , still make it harder and much more painful that it should be?

The only thing he can come up with that is _sort of_ rational, that can be put into words and maybe said out loud, is the most stupid thing he could think of:

_Rogers has a fucking beard now._

Which is just as irrelevant and ridiculous as his observation about Natasha’s hair is. It’s not a big deal. It’s not. Apparently, they all had a makeover while Tony wasn’t looking, Thor included. It is literally not something relevant at all.

_But his uniform—_

He’s using a completely destroyed Captain America suit, dyed darker and torn and ragged, missing the silver star on the chest, no helmet in sight, and seeing it it’s like being punched in the gut.

It doesn’t matter. Whatever happened to Rogers, it doesn’t matter, alright?

It’s not his business.

Rogers walks slow, slow enough that compared to all the others it almost seems like he’s avoiding each and every step forward, rethinking it at least twice every time he takes a stride, even if the expression in his face is just blank calm and determination.

Watching him walk closer is both relieving and grating. Tony doesn’t – Tony doesn’t wish anyone to die, that’s not the sort of person he is. He wouldn’t do something like that. And no matter how angry he had been with Rogers, how many hours of sleep he lost because of the selfish asshole, Tony has never wanted him to suffer.

(Wait.)

(No, that’s not exactly true.)

Tony has never wanted him to just disappear or be gone from existence. He’d wanted many things, but never that. So yeah, he’ll give, he’s kind of glad Rogers is still alive, because Tony really doesn’t want this all to go down to one more regret he’ll add to his never-ending list, one more thing he’ll have to shove down and pretend it doesn’t hurt for the rest of his days, especially now that he can’t even count with the help of bitter alcohol to wash off the taste from his tongue.

On the other hand—

Tony is not…

Tony is not happy he is here.

He really isn’t.

It’s complicated. It’s very, very complicated. The thing is – he understands _why_ Rogers is here, okay? He does. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out, and Tony _is_ a genius; Rogers is here because he said he would be, as he always is when it all goes south. As he said it himself, he _can’t help it._ Wherever trouble appears, Steve Rogers comes barging in, ready to fight and command and probably destroy a building or two, depends on who they’re fighting and for what end.

(Huh.)

(He’d thought all that time for reflection had dissipated some of this bitterness.)

(Nope. Still feeling kind of bitter, not going to lie.)

So yeah. The world is ending, and Captain America answered the call. Perfectly normal. Tony understands that.

But Tony doesn’t have any problem with Captain America. Not any more than he already had by the time he was twenty.

No.

It’s entirely Steve Rogers that Tony isn’t comfortable being around right now.

The very same Steve Rogers that’s been looking at him nonstop ever since he stepped off the Quinjet, and is walking closer, and closer, and Tony hates that he still feels a little waver of unease and apprehension at the sight of Roger’s figure stepping straight in his direction, with nothing but a hard, cold stare in his eyes, back so stiff and hands clenched into fists, like he’s going to battle.

Apparently, that day in Siberia had never left him too. Apparently, he’s still angry.

Or maybe he’s angry about something else. About Tony being gone two days without a word. About Tony not being able to stop Ebony Maw in the first place.

About Tony not calling.

Many things to be angry about. All Tony has to do is pick one and they can fight about it. Just like the old days.

_The old days._

_Ain’t that a laugh?_

Tony had trusted him, once.

Tony doesn’t trust a lot of people, but he had trusted Steve Rogers.

He had trusted him because If there was anyone Tony has believed would be fair and just and do whatever it took to make sure he’ll save everyone, it would be Steve Rogers. Not because he was Captain America, but because Rogers was – he was a stubborn asshole, a guy that refused to back down and be defeated, that would rather get himself killed in battle than let civilians be harmed. Tony had admired that. When that stubbornness clashed with his own and when Steve would give him that disappointed look or bicker about something; Tony had taken all of it in stride, because he’s a good sport, and despite what everyone thinks, Tony does listen to criticism. He’s goal-oriented, for fuck’s sake. He’s an _engineer_. Tony listens when people complain, because that’s how he knows what he has to improve, and he _knows_ there’s a lot of shit he could improve in matters of team-dynamics. Steve had been their leader. Tony _had_ listened, and Tony _had tried._

Because he’d trusted Steve. Even when they fought even when Steve was out there, doing the very same things Tony asked him not to do, not seeing how catastrophic it would be when the consequences of his actions finally weighted on the civilians – even then, Tony had believed in him.

Not agreed, but believed. Believed _Steve_ believed he’d been doing the right thing. And even if it gave Tony the biggest headache he had ever felt to that day, he could understand, and he could respect it, because Tony knows what’s like to have his thoughts clouded by fear and distrust and paranoia. All Tony had been doing was trying to get Steve to see his intentions, to see he wanted to help. All Tony had wanted was Steve to understand that… even if it was happening in the worst of ways, even if Tony had made him feel cornered or fucked up in some other way unknowingly, Tony was trying, and all he had wanted to do was to help.

But that was before Siberia.

Before something deep inside Tony had decided that Steve Rogers can never get too close anymore.

Rogers stops in front of him at a sort of respectable distance, close enough to cause Tony an extreme discomfort and self-consciousness, but not close enough to disguise the blatant, unspoken gap between them, and just stands there.

Tony feels like they are all watching them, but he can’t avert his gaze to check.

(He doesn’t trust either himself or Rogers enough.)

“Tony.” Rogers says as a greeting, bland and impersonal and _tight_ in his throat, as if he’s holding back all sorts of other words, and Tony can’t fucking do anything but stare back, because he doesn’t trust himself to do anything but react to whatever Rogers will say.

“Rogers.” And he almost wants to flinch, because that sounds _awful,_ in so many ways – the crack in his voice, the cold _indifference_ of the surname, so automatic at this point that Tony hadn’t even realized how it would sound if he said it out loud.

It makes him sound petty. Christ, that’s not what he meant to do; But he won’t stand here and pretend he can take the familiarity, that he can still _trust_ Rogers and naively believe he’s his friend after what happened between them.

It’s not the time, he knows – Alright? He knows it’s not the time. Tony shouldn’t even be _thinking_ about this, it’s so ridiculous of him, to be concerned with _this_ when the world is literally ending around them, but he just _won’t_.

Tony can fight with him – against him or beside him, whatever it’s necessary. He can do it. He can accept the fact that they’re here now, they’re back, and in the worst circumstances ever, not when they should be; But Tony can overlook all of that in favor of working together and fixing this mess and saving the world. He can do it. It’s not a problem.

But he won’t—

He won’t stand here and let himself be fooled twice.

If he forgets himself, this will all go to his head again, will make him slip, and it _will_ hurt him again.

No.

He can be professional. He can be polite and be cooperative and work along.

But he can’t do this whole _I thought I was your friend_ thing again. It won’t end well, for either of them.

Steve makes a face so dark and stormy that Tony, for a second, thinks he’s going to be punched in the face. He can’t even step back because he’s just so surprised with how _quick_ this went south—

(Less than five seconds. New record _._ )

—But it never comes.

Instead, what follows is:

“I’m glad you’re here.”

And it’s stiff and awkward and so, so painful that Tony wants to _run away_ , he doesn’t want to do this, because what should he _say_ in response to that?

He can’t think of anything, so he nods. That’s all he does, a nod. He tries to say ‘ _you too’_ , but the sound won’t come out of his mouth, so he just ends up moving his lips in a vague imitation of the sentence. Roger’s lips twist anxiously, like those words he’s keeping in are just trying to claw their way up his throat and out of his mouth, and he’s keeping them in by sheer will alone, jaw locked so tight not even a crowbar could force open his teeth.

They keep staring at each other.

Or rather, Rogers keep staring at him, and Tony stares back because Tony doesn’t back down.

It’s the most awkward Tony has felt in a very long time.

“What happened to you?” Rhodey interrupts, and _God bless_ him, because it was all becoming a little _too much_ there, and he needed an out before he did something that would only make this entire thing worst.

Tony turns from Rogers so quickly it almost feels like he _rips_ their staring contest apart, and finds Rhodey with eyes zeroed on the bandages on his torso as he speaks, before his eyes flicker back up, concerned. “You jumped inside a spaceship and were _gone._ And then you come back two days later, _still alive._ What the hell was going on up there?”

“Glad to know you’re so happy that I survived.” Tony sarcastically says, hoping the banter will bring back some sense of relief and recognition to this far-too-emotionally-exhausting day, glad to ignore Rogers for a little while longer if that means he can breathe normally.

“Where’s Quill?”

The voice is not Rhodey’s. It comes from behind Tony, and so he turns bewildered to find Nebula and the _raccoon_ standing in front of one another, much like he and Rogers had, and Nebula’s head is hanging down sorrowfully as the raccoon stares up at her, it’s entire posture alerting aggression.

It’s the raccoon.

The raccoon is speaking. To Nebula.

“Where’s everyone?” The raccoon asks, in a _human voice, what the fuck_ , and his voice is raspy and smoky and grating, and it sounds distressed and pissed off and so, so sad. “Nebula. Where are they?”

Tony looks back at her, worried, and he _sees_ the way her lips twitch and wobble, just a little, and her eyes go impossibly darker with sadness.

“Where _are_ they!?” The raccoon demands, desperate, and Tony remembers them –Quill, Mantis, Drax. Gamora, Nebula’s sister, the one he never met.

They’re all gone now.

And the raccoon had been down here this whole time, and he didn’t know.

“They didn’t make it.” Nebula answers, curtly, and her words are clipped and snippy, as if she pushed them out of her mouth as fast as she could to keep something else inside, to stop it from escaping.

“No.” The raccoon steps back, as if Nebula slapped him. “You’re lying.”

She’s not.

( _She’s not lying._ )

“Tell me you’re lying!” He screams, as Nebula closes her eyes and turns her head to the side, trying to hide her face from the screams. “No!”

_‘Glad you’re here.’_

_‘Good to see you.’_

_‘No.’_

_‘Oh God, no.’_

_“_ No!” The raccoon yells, pulling his own fur in distress, pacing around aimlessly, deliriously, his voice drunk with sorrow. “ _No._ ”

_‘It can’t be.’_

_‘No’_

(Yeah.)

(Because what other reaction can you have when the entire universe has fallen apart?)

Tony watches with a heavy heart as the raccoon tears at his own fur and screams, screams and cusses, _cries_ hopelessly with a grief and an anger that only those who have lost it all can reach. The full breakdown. It’s explosive and torturous and _sad_ , and it echoes deep in Tony’s own heart, in all of their hearts, because that – that was them, for the past two days, every single time they reached for someone and realized they weren’t there.

They all probably saw Sam, Wanda, and Barnes disappear. T’Challa too. And who knows how many others in T’Challa’s army, people they might’ve been friends with.

Tony saw the Guardians go. He saw Peter go.

Nebula lost Gamora.

And that raccoon—

That raccoon seems to have lost _everyone._

He cries, and Nebula doesn’t comfort him – because she doesn’t know how –, and neither does anyone else – because they _can’t_ –, so they all just stand there, watching; As he curses the entire universe, the bitter hunger for revenge scratching at the edges of his voice, like nails on a chalkboard – and the universe, in return, only swallows them in darkness and cold, and does not reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you weren't expecting a SteveTony hug. It's going to take a lot of work before we get there ;)
> 
> From here on out, I will loosely divide this fic into arcs - and in each one, we'll discuss a different character, and address whatever issues need to be addressed by that character, and take a deeper look into their relationship with Tony. I say loosely because you'll be able to see clearly their starting point, but you probably won't be able to see the ending point, not for all of those arcs. Some issues transcend a two-person relationship. Some issues involve all of them. Some issues never end. The lines will get a little blurred sometimes. 
> 
> But we'll go through them all, one by one - Starting in the next chapter, where we'll begin at the only possible starting point: the one and only, Pepper Potts.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, leaving kudos, commenting, and subscribing! See you in the next one :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pepper Potts. PA, friend, lover, CEO, ex-lover, fiancé. That's quite a ride. Honestly, how could I begin anywhere other than here?
> 
> I've been trying my best to find a way from all the Point A's to the Point B's the MCU created and never properly navigated through, and I'm trying to do it with logic characterization - so you can probably tell why Pepper is a character that demands some of my attention. There sure is a lot of controversy surrounding Pepper and her relationship with Tony. Some people will defend Pepper with all their might, and some people will shun her out with no mercy, and to be perfectly honest, both sides have some very compelling arguments for their reasoning; But that little gray area between those two is where I thrive, and that's where we'll find the balance between Tony's view of Pepper, Pepper's view of herself, and the true effect of her presence and actions, and how that affects our views, as spectators, of her. 
> 
> Whether you like Pepper or not, you have to admit that her relationship with Tony is definitely important to his character, and she is, effectively, one of the pillars of his story. I think killing her off with the snap or pretending she was never a romantic partner to Tony is, although effective, a dangerous play because it erases some subtleties that can only be observed if Pepper is present. So actually, what I have to do is not to eliminate Pepper from the equation, but to push her into a position that forces her to voice her opinions and position in a what that not even Tony's personal view or feelings are able to distort their meaning, for better or for worse. 
> 
> And I know exactly how to do it. Because the MCU has already shown us how, over and over again. 
> 
> This whole 'they're together, and now they're not' and the 'she's cool with iron man, and now she's not' mess? This thing that's never properly explained, and it seems to be the main issue that divides people's opinions of Pepper? That's where the secret lies. Even if I can imagine what happened in all those in-betweens we never saw, the barely-there suggestion of the issues between Tony and Pepper in the movies is never openly addressed (properly), and for this mess to be solved, guessing won't be enough. We need something more substantial. Something that will amount to a significant character trait, and, more importantly, something that ties in with canon nicely. Nevermind that this is a SteveTony fic. Understanding Pepper is essential to understanding Tony - to know what he needs, we need to know why he needs Pepper, and every other person he seems to be inevitably drawn towards over and over again. 
> 
> And it comes with additional worldbuilding and plot support! Who doesn't love some multipurpose conflict? 
> 
> So Pepper Potts gets the chance to be the first on the hot seat this time around. Let's set up the stage with the most important issue: What is the thing that constantly strains their relationship? Is it Iron Man, or something else? Let's talk about it. To do that, the first thing we need is some comparative perspective: who is Pepper and who are the Avengers in Tony's life, at this point in time? What do they represent? What does it mean, if Tony chooses to act in favor of one over the other; to himself, to the side he picks, and to the side he doesn't?
> 
> Pepper is pivotal to Tony's story. Not only because he loves her, or because she's been there since the beginning, even if those are very important things - But because Pepper brings to the table a unique opportunity to discuss one of the core subjects of any Iron Man story:
> 
> Priorities and Purpose.

The problem is that they _all_ want to speak to him. Right now.

Tony is barely able to stand in his own feet. He wants to be angry about his own lazy disposition, about how tired his muscles feel or how his bones don’t seem to be strong enough to hold him up, too weak for even this simple task, but Tony knows, at least at the back of his head, that he isn’t twenty anymore; And he is without food, much water or proper sleep for over three days, and he has fought the universe’s biggest asshole during that same time period.

If Tony was a little calmer, he would ask them to slow down. If Tony was anyone else at all, he would have told them that and asked them for a little room to breathe.

But Tony does not.

Because he doesn’t get the luxury of resting on this, not now. Not ever.

Every single breath Tony takes in that’s too deep damn nearly sends him into panic, every beat of his heart is painful and a reminder that soon enough, if he doesn’t do anything – _they,_ if _they_ don’t do anything – it will soon be his last, and they probably don’t know, and he _knows_ he needs to tell them.

“You jumped inside a spaceship,” Rhodey says after they’ve finally stepped back inside the Compound, and it’s a recapitulation as much as it is a reprimand, and his crossed arms and worried brows tell Tony he’s not escaping this without a proper explanation, maybe not even then. “With no backup, no plan, and no way of communicating.”

Oh boy, he’s mad, isn’t he?

Tony will suffer for that later. That sure is going to be a lot of fun.

“Had to save the wizard.” Tony says, which is not a proper explanation at all, but he hopes he can escape the inquisition if he makes himself look tired enough that Rhodey will go easy on him.

And even if Tony _is_ dramatic, which he acknowledges just fine, this time he isn’t faking it. He _is_ tired. He truly would appreciate a little sympathy right now, just a little bit. He is not faking it when he wobbles on his way to the couch, just as he’s not faking the wince that escapes him when his movement pulls at the wound under the bandages and stings. Pepper’s hands on his shoulders are gentle and soothing, and Tony sighs and relaxes under their touch, but he can’t truly ignore the dull but constant ache in his legs and arms, the weight of his own head on his poor, stiff neck, and the bottomless pit of darkness and dread that swirls inside him, silent, but fatal, like a black hole, a star that has extinguished and now can never return.

It’s just… a lot.

It’s a _lot._

The outside and the inside, the chaos of the last three days versus the bitterness that brewed slowly during the past three years, all hitting him at once, and it’s very difficult to focus, even more so when he’s in such a terrible condition. _It’s hard to feel._ He’s trying not to think about it, the _inside_ , he really is, because he has so much on his plate already without adding _personal conflict_  to the mix – but he can _see_ the way Natasha’s eyes dart all over the place, sweeping the location to assess the danger, but _also_ to take in the sight of the Compound with sharp eyes, a glint of something sorrowful hiding deep inside them, a feeling of nostalgia Tony will pretend doesn’t hurt him as well, to see it there, to assume and think too much of it, to allow himself to hope for things he will never recover now.

Bruce and Thor don’t do it, not like Natasha does, because it’s not the same for them, even if they _do_ relax when they leave the open field and are back again inside the safety of a secure building, and it pangs on his chest for a whole another reason, for nostalgia and regret, something softer, something quiet.

But it’s still a lot.

Rogers? Tony won’t even dare to think about.

Too many assumptions, too close to home.

(He probably missed it too.)

(But in a way someone misses an old childhood toy.)

(Something that once meant so much, meant the world)

(But then time passed)

(And now it doesn’t matter anymore)

(Not like it used to.)

_No. Shut up. Not thinking about it._

(But you know—)

_No, you stay quiet._

In the end, the inescapable truth is this: they are, for the first time in years, after one of the worst fights Tony has ever fought, together again. _Almost_ all of them. Together.

Whatever together means now. Whatever this whole thing means.

They are all scattered across the lounge, sitting on the chairs and sofas and leaning on counters and walls, a weird distance between them, like no one can handle too much proximity, especially in a room suddenly so full of people like this. Tony finds it weird, but at the same time, he’s thankful for it, because it does feel like too much right now, and the only people he feels like can handle close are Pepper, Rhodey and, surprisingly, Nebula. So he’s glad that all three of them stay close by, even if the raccoon, the one that clearly knows who Nebula is, stands far in the back, almost hidden behind the large sofa in which Thor and Bruce sit, and neither he nor Nebula make the effort of being close or offering comfort to one another.

It’s awkward, just like the rest of them. Tony wonders what sort of story they have there. He wonders if Nebula would ever tell him.

But then again, his story is messy too. And would he ever tell her?

Probably not.

“Wizard?” Thor asks, sounding very confused. “What wizard?”

“Strange.” Bruce confirms, but in a way only Tony truly understands; And all the others look at him like he’s insane, like “ _strange”_ doesn’t even begin to cover it, and he rolls his eyes and motions to Tony with his head. “No, the guy Tony went after. His name is Strange. Stephen Strange.”

( _Is._ )

(Weird, isn’t it?)

(How such a small word can be painful.)

“Who was he?” Natasha asks, her voice uncharacteristically raspy, and Tony doesn’t miss the way she slides the correction softly into her question, so smoothly Bruce doesn’t even realize she’s doing it, her eyes locked to Tony’s in search for an answer.

“The guy who had the Time Stone.” Tony says, and they all go stiff at the same time. “The creepy alien in the spaceship was looking for him. I tried to make him leave, but he wasn’t having it, and the bastard abducted him. So I followed, and tried to get the wizard back.”

“Where did he take you?”

“Titan.” Tony answers, completely aware he’s omitting the entire section of the story where he _killed_ the guy with the help of a sixteen-year-old, and _he_ decided to take the fight to Thanos, not the other way around.

He just doesn’t want to deal with the judgment over this particular fuck-up right now. Because it will happen if he tells them, it _will._ Loud, angry, sharp judgment, wrapped up all pretty in a shiny box of _utter disappointment_ , from seven different points in the same room. No, Tony doesn’t want to deal with that right now. He’s hating himself enough for now without the added commentary from the third parties.

Do the details even matter right now? They don’t. They really don’t.

“The moon? In Saturn?” Bruce asks, frowning confusedly.

“Apparently.” Tony makes a gesture that’s not exactly a shrug, but it’s close. It’s too twitchy to be quite what it should be. “It’s where he lived. His people.”

“We never registered life in Saturn before.” Bruce continues, unconsciously derailing the conversation in the way he always does when something piques his interest, like he always does. Tony is actually kind of glad to see it happen, even after the end of the world. Anything that provides even the smallest feeling of familiarity is welcome. “Were there people living there?”

“Not anymore.” Tony shakes his head. “It’s all destroyed now. Apparently, the one we got was the last one standing.”

“Did he kill them? His people?” Rogers asks, and his voice cuts through the line of focus Tony had between himself and Bruce like a knife, slicing the fake casing of security so easily Tony struggles not to wince.

“He tried, that’s for sure.” He grumbles, mostly to himself, and because he knows that’s not helpful, he continues, “But no. Happened on its own. He said the resources were scarce and the population was too big, so he made a proposal: To kill half of them before they all starved.”

A very, very heavy pause hangs in the room for a moment.

“Did they agree?” Bruce’s eyes widen, with the same intensity of Rhodey's frown.

“No.” Tony explains, “and apparently, that killed them all. Or so he said.”

“Considering that _this_ is what he had in mind to avoid the issue I’m not sure I trust his judgement.” Natasha grumbles with seething sarcasm, her lips pressed tight into a line.

“That’s why he wanted the gauntlet.” Tony elaborates, after giving Natasha an agreeing nod. “To make half the creatures in the entire universe disappear.”

“The creature who attacked us said the same thing.” Thor mentions, and they all turn to him, curious. “Something about making sacrifices to achieve balance.”

“Well, it clearly didn’t work out, did it?” Rhodey snaps, irritable – and Tony can see his nerves fraying at the edges by his posture, by the strong lines of his veins in his forearms, tight as he crosses them over his chest, a gesture that is so obviously an attempt to protect himself that it makes a hot, stinging desperation to _soothe_ and _reassure_ flare inside Tony’s chest. “What’s happening out there isn’t balance, it’s _just cruel._ It’s killing people. He’s killing everything.”

The harshness, the naked, unmasked truth of the words _hurts_ , cuts deep and thin, aiming to the core, because they all what to refute it, want to be able to offer comfort words or to stand their ground and refuse the sorrow and hopelessness to drag them down, but they can’t. They are all so exhausted. They have survived the end of the world, an what for? What good did it do, to be lucky enough to dodge the bullet? There’s no real way to feel grateful for still being alive when you know so many people are gone,  and it doesn’t matter if some of your loved ones survived – they can be relieved for each other, but not for themselves.

Who in their right mind can be grateful for getting a first-row ticket to watch the world burn?

Tony suspects that every single person in this room, including himself, would gladly give their life if it meant they could fix this.

And it’s that just the very job description of being a superhero? _To sacrifice yourself so others won’t have to?_ To protect them? To _avenge_ them?

The irony of it tastes like pennies on his tongue.

It’s more messed up than just killing half the population. It’s worse. It’s doing it a way that the only thing that remains of them, the only tangible thing they left when they disappeared, the thing that is already too painful to think about – it’s taking that thing and have it be the cause of the death of whoever is left, in a long, slow, agonizing pace, to literally choke them in their grief.

That’s just… That’s the worst of it all.

Tony’s lips feel so dry it’s like he hasn’t spoken in ages. He tries to open his mouth to say the words, to _tell_ them, but it’s hard, and when he makes the mistake of looking away from the room towards the glass wall to his left, to stare up at the dark, ominous sky, he feels the heavy weight of a gaze following his movements, like the aim of a rifle, but far too close, too personal, too much.

“Do you know?” Rogers asks, asks _him_ , and Tony turns to look at him on instinct, and it’s so jarring to see those blue eyes staring back with something other than the rage he last saw there, to look and see that intensity, that sad, deep, tight sorrow simmering below the surface, and to feel it weight on him like a physical thing, like a touch he cannot brush off. “What happened out there? When he snapped his fingers?”

“Yeah.” Tony says, slowly. “Do _you_ know?”

“We were in Wakanda when it happened.” Rogers explains. “We saw it. The people, and then, later, the trees—”

 _Oh._ They know.

_Fuck._

“Tony.” Bruce calls, a little urgent, leaning forward and raising his hands in a placating gesture, as if he’s getting ready to steady Tony if it’s needed, like he sees something in Tony’s face that makes him frightened, makes him worry. “He didn’t take only the people—”

“Yes, animals and plants too, I’ve heard about it. FRIDAY filled me in.” Tony interrupts, feeling a little breathless. “How did _you_ hear about it?”

“T’Challa’s sister’s lab had all sort of sensors monitoring every surface of the planet. Filtered info in real time, all the time. We saw—” Bruce clears his throat, looking more uncomfortable than Tony has ever seen him. “We saw the numbers.”

“So you know about the dust.” Tony says, and it’s not a question. “You know that _that’s_ what’s causing _this_ , don’t you?”

“We do.” Rhodey replies, and the pure, so profound agony in his dark eyes feels like a physical blow into Tony’s chest, and he wants to reach out, wants to hug him, wants to help him, but it’s useless.

“We’ve been flying around, looking for survivors and trying to help as many people as we can, but it’s just—” Bruce shrugs, but not out of nonchalance, just pure awkwardness and completely uncomfortable, almost hopeless. “Everything’s destroyed. We don’t even know where to begin.”

Natasha interjects, her voice a little surer, but still wrapped around a sad, muted wave, rough around the edges, choking tears down with hard, inescapable facts. “We were able to gather food and bring people to shelter, but these are all temporary measures. There’s no use bringing them to shelters that have no light and no heating, and the world gets colder every day. The food will eventually run out, too.”

And it doesn’t get easier to hear it from someone else’s mouth other than his own thoughts. Good to know.

“We have to start production back up.” Pepper suggests, after they all make a pointed pause. “Reorganize whoever’s left and… find a way to get things running again. Water, power, medical—"

“It’s not that simple.”

To their surprise, it’s the _raccoon_ that interrupts. The raccoon, and Tony still can’t quite grasp that this is truly happening, no matter how many weird things he has seen during his years as a goddamned superhero; The raccoon finally pushes himself off his lean on the wall and walks closer, his stride surprisingly confident for someone that can only look so menacing being so short and… _furry_ , and gets closer, speaking for the first time since they all gathered here, seemingly unable to hold himself back any longer even for his grief. 

Maybe it’s the strangeness of it all – or maybe is his tone, the seriousness in it, the dark underlying notes of looming, terrible news hidden beneath short and unassuming words, but they all go quiet despite being relentlessly arguing back and forth for the past who knows how many minutes, and they let him come closer and join their unconscious formation, to close the circle they created across the room, with a sense of _finality_ , of _decision_ , so strong it rattles something inside Tony without his permission.

“It’s not.” The raccoon says, to Pepper, of all people. “It doesn’t matter how fast you act or how many people you save. It’s not enough.”

Pepper opens her mouth to argue, her eyes lit with raging indignation, but before she can speak, Bruce softly interjects:

“Rocket’s right.” He says in an apologetic tone. “It’s not that simple. The problem… The problem is not the lack of a functioning society, it’s the lack of the proper conditions to make the planet habitable. Soon enough we won’t have sunlight.”, he gestures towards the pitch-black night outside, to emphasize his point, “The ashes didn’t disappear, they just scattered. Eventually, the chemicals and particles will rise to the atmosphere and they will block sunlight, which will kill the rest of the plants that are left, and it’ll slowly take down the entire food chain with it. Not to mention the _air._ We don’t know what’s in those ashes. We don’t even know if we’ll be able to _breathe_ when that happens. We don’t even know if they’re killing us right now.”

Tony feels more than hears Pepper’s sharp inhale, her hand tightening on his shoulder, pinching in a strong, almost painful manner.

“It still hasn’t rained.” Bruce also mentions. “When it does, the water will be contaminated. It’ll ruin the soil. It might even get people sick. We… We are living in a hostile planet now. A planet that has no conditions to support life. If we don’t do something to fix that, whatever we do to help the people that are left will be for _nothing._ ”

“We can’t just let them _die_ out there!” Pepper argues all the same, nearly enraged.

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Bruce defensively exclaims. “What I’m saying is—”

“What he’s saying,” the raccoon rasps, sauntering forward with faltering strides, like the exhaustion doesn’t allow him to walk in a straight line anymore, as if to put himself between Pepper and Bruce, to make himself the focus and to be heard. “is that saving the people won’t be enough. You can’t just gather everyone who’s left and try to rebuild what you had with half the population. That’s not how it works, because that’s not what’s killing the planet. Before you fix that, you can’t fix anything else, because it won’t stick.”

“The rabbit is right.” Thor says, and completely ignores the muttered _he’s not a rabbit_ that Bruce says beside him in favor of saying, insightfully, “Before any attempt to rebuild what was lost, we need to ensure that they’ll have conditions to live. Being in an isolated place with no resources can also harm the people.”

Tony takes in a sharp breath, a sudden realization dawning on him.

“Hostile planet.” And then, he looks at Nebula, and finds her looking back, eyes knowing and affirming, and he knows he is right. “The same thing that happened to Titan. That’s what’s gonna happen to us.”

Tony had wondered what had happened on Titan, when he was there. When he first saw the vast, endless destruction and debris, the solitude of its’ sands, stones and metal, the skeletons of what once could’ve been a living planet – even as his eyes scanned the terrain looking for advantage points and possible traps, his mind mostly focused on the threat of Thanos about to arrive; That little corner of his mind, the one that’s paranoid, curious, and never shuts up, that tiny piece of him had wondered:

How? How does such a thing happen?

When he saw the size of the destruction, he had assumed something quick, explosive and violent, like a disaster, a war, a _bomb_ , the things that make the world catch fire instantly and leave only carcasses behind, with no time to attempt escape or plan for salvation. A swift, but no less cruel death. It’s what he always thinks, as a former weapons manufacturer. He knows how lethal weapons can be, maybe better than anyone else, seeing that one of his own weapons nearly killed him once.

But that’s not it. That’s obviously not it. The answer is staring Tony right in the face right now, glaring and familiar, so ironically close to home that it almost makes him want to laugh. It’s not quick destruction, like a bomb blowing up or a Jericho missile plummeting down from the skies to lighten the world on fire – it’s slow, silent and just as deadly, crashing from the inside out, self-destructive instinct finally being let loose, destroying _itself._  

The world will not explode – it has already been cracked, and now it will crumble from within. It’s just human nature. It’s just… _nature._

Two days in and people are already stealing and rioting, or so FRIDAY said. Two days in and soon enough, the resources will grow so scant people will start to fight over them. Things go really bad when desperation truly hits, who can tell what will happen when they all start turning on each other? Will they become violent enough to hurt? To _kill_ each other?

And the people who are out there that can’t do that, the ones that are afraid and desperate; How will they survive that? What will they do, when they’re left with no other choice?

And this is – this is on a small scale. Tony has no idea what has happened to the governments. Hell, _T’Challa_ was a King, and now he’s _gone._ What happened to Wakanda? Is someone there to watch over it? Is the US president still alive? _Does it even matter?_ If the situation is so dire that people will start abandoning their posts and running away, what guarantee does anyone have that anything will be safe? People go mad without order. Tony can talk big and rant about not following rules, he can put on an arrogant face and act on his rebel persona all he likes, but by now, he is far beyond the years of not acknowledging the importance of having a guide, a moral, a _purpose_. He wants to believe the best of people, he really does, because admitting that people can be so cruel hurts deeply, no matter how many times it happens, but he can’t deny it that he has _seen_ what people can become, and  the possibility will always be there at the back of his head, even if he tries to hide it.

No one is immune to it. They all have a dark side.

If they don’t do anything, Titan is their future. The same destruction, the same silence, the same vast, endless echoes of _nothing_ buried beneath ashes and dirt.

Tony has seen it with his own two eyes, he has _seen it_ – and he cannot let it happen.

“We’ll probably have to divide in groups—” Thor is saying, and Tony realizes he lost a chunk of the conversation, lost in his own thoughts for who knows how long, his focus still blurred and difficult to listen to the exchange before him with his full attention.

“No, we can’t divide.” Rogers adamantly says, and Tony wishes he wasn’t this childish right now, but—

(Rich, coming from you, Cap.)

But he actually agrees, this time. He agrees. Tony doesn’t want them separating, not before he can get his own head sorted out and find a way to process this without the complete, bottomless dread and fear clouding his judgment, feeding into the catastrophe steaming from his memories and leaking poison and panic into his logic.

“When you have a limited number of allies, organizing teams is more efficient.” Thor calmly arguments “It’s what we did, after we fled from Asgard.”

( _Wait, what was that?_ )

Feeling from Asgard?

“We don’t know how bad the situation is out there.” Rogers argues back, and the back and forth, the posturing, the arguing; it’s all making Tony’s head _ache_ terribly, the pulsing of his own blood loud in his ears, rhythmic, throbbing and aching sensation behind his eyeballs, all the way up to his brain. “We can’t divide.”

“Well, then how do you suggest we manage both the rescue and trying to save the planet?” Rhodey asks, turning to Rogers, not contrary but a little annoyed.

They will never agree, Tony realizes, panicking slightly. On anything. They are all right and they are all wrong, because there is no right and no wrong, there is no protocol describing what they should do in case of apocalypse. But if they don’t agree, they’ll fight, and if they fight, they’ll part. That’s the thing. The thing is that Tony knows what happens when people part because the situation gets dire, he knows what happens when everyone starts following their own agenda to survive, he knows where this leads them.

He can’t let that happen.

“Rogers’ got a point.” He quickly says, and the words to scrape the inside of his throat as they come up, a little, against his own will, and he tries not to look into Rogers’ face as it snaps in his direction with eyes so intense they could burn holes through him. “We can’t divide now. We have a better chance to come up with something together.”

He tries not to feel offended when they all go suspiciously quiet, thinking his words through, the air feeling extremely uncomfortable.

He also doesn’t think if that uncomfortable feeling is coming from him, from his obvious refusal to look in Rogers’ direction, _knowing_ that the use of the word _together_ struck a few cords that have already been pulled a little too tight between them.

“We can’t just ignore the environmental threat.” Bruce mutters insistently. “If we divide, me, Tony and Rocket can get into the lab as soon as possible and start running tests and finding a solution to get rid of the ashes. If we could reach Shuri—” he trails off and looks hopefully at Natasha and Rogers, but Natasha only averts her eyes and shakes her head minutely, and Bruce’s face falls for a moment.

“—But we need to get into a lab, as soon as possible.” He continues after a beat, forcing his voice to be even and louder, to make sure he’s getting the importance of his point across. “If we divide, you can go and start rescuing people right away, and we can start fixing this. We have to do both at the same time.”

And this is so hard, it's so fucking _hard_ , because they _all_ have a point. They don’t have the numbers and they all have a point, and he doesn’t know what to do.

“We need more people.” Tony says, mostly to himself, and rubs his hands over his eyes, aching with strain and dry as a desert. “We can’t do it all by ourselves.”

“We’ve been trying to find whoever we can.” Natasha informs him. “But we didn’t have any luck. We couldn’t find Scott and Clint—” her voice cracks a little, and they all pretend it didn’t happen as she goes on, “—, and we also couldn’t find Fury. We thought they could help, but we can’t find them.”

“FRIDAY is running some data.” Tony tells her, and it comes out as a reassurance without him meaning to. “We still haven’t found anyone, but you never know.”

Natasha nods, and she looks like she wants to believe him, but can’t quite make herself to do it.

No one says anything, because they all have already laid out their arguments and their doubts, their worries bleeding in between the spaces of their words, and they still can’t find a middle ground. They have to choose.

Tony needs to choose.

It’s possible that Rogers and the others have been discussing this for days, and now that Tony’s here, they want him to choose. They’re waiting to see what he thinks, to know which side he’ll pick. It’s not— It’s not that Pepper’s opinion doesn’t matter, or that he knows better, because he knows he doesn’t, it’s just that this is what always happens; They reach an impasse, they hit a road-block, and they all argue about it until enough of them give in to the most supported solution. They have all laid their arguments, but no one has been able to convince the others to change their mind.

But usually, it’s Rogers who decides.

And usually, it’s Tony who disagrees with him.

Tony doesn’t know when this habit formed between them, when they all just reached a point where it’s nearly instinctual to push a discussion to this threatening point, but the truth is that it always does. Rogers, Tony can understand, because he is – _was_ – their leader, and one of his most praised skills is his strategic proficiency, so his decisions hold much more weight than other members of the team. Tony knows that. Tony has seen it for himself.

But somewhere along the line, this process gained a secondary step. It was completely unconscious, but repetition made them all accustomed to it. Actually, if he tries, Tony’s pretty sure he can count all the times it happened since they first assembled. At the end of the day, Rogers is a man of rapid action and Tony is a man of long-term calculation, and if someone is going to find a counter-argument to Rogers’ logic, it’s going to be him, because they are opposites.

He can _feel_ the weight of their expectations, the anxious wait for his final conclusion because that’s what always happens. He doesn’t know why, he just knows it does. It’s how their dynamic works, like it always has, and feeling it come back so suddenly after so many years not needing to do it is almost jarring, overwhelming, and it makes his lungs feel tight and his mind reel, and the crashing realization of this forgotten responsibility, of this role he’s not sure he can perform again now.

Tony had almost forgotten how it feels to slip into the role of the tenth man, to be the one who will disagree or hesitate almost instinctively to any decision made too-promptly, to be the devil’s advocate. Tony is the one who argues, he’s the one who can look at a situation from multiple angles and find any openings they might’ve missed, he’s the voice of contradiction—

But for almost three years now, no voice has been arguing back.

And now he needs to choose.

And although the looming, incoming threat of a collapsing planet will never leave, will _eventually_ swallow them whole and leave no room for other priorities except holding it up with their bare hands if they have to, this might be the only chance they have to go out there and find more people, people that can _help_ , anyone they might’ve missed in their haste of the first-days search. They have Tony now. They have FRIDAY. Although sometimes it does feel like pulling teeth, they have been known, on occasion, for working better together.

So Tony needs to choose.

They will not divide.

(But he needs to choose.)

“We have to go rescue any survivors we can find.”

Pepper’s sigh behind him is so deep and heartfelt that Tony almost feels bad for how intensely she is experiencing this, how taxing this is being on her, especially when he can see that the others barely react in face of his opinion; The only shift happening in their gaze, as the years and years of habit merely makes them take the new information and immediately add it to their own plans and estimates, barely registering in any emotional way before being converted into a simple mindset of a goal to be achieved.

Except for one thing. Bruce immediately opens his mouth, his eyes wide and frantic, but Tony doesn’t let him speak.

“We can’t physically go everywhere they need us. It’s just impossible.” He admits, even before Bruce can make the argument. “I know. The world is too big and we have don’t have enough people. We would never be able to save everyone. We do need to fix whatever is going on with the planet – but we can’t let people waiting. So, until we figure out what to do, rescuing the survivors is our priority.”

There it is.

His choice.

That is always his choice. Tony will—

Tony does acknowledge how dangerous it is, to pretend the ashes aren’t a huge concern, but he has to make a call. Deep inside him, he knows he’ll never be able to halt the intrinsic, almost visceral instinct to protect people, to throw all other priorities away in favor of making sure the civilians are alright – and he’s going to try that first, always, because that will always be the thought at the forefront of his mind at all times.

Even if that makes Pepper worried sometimes. Many times.

But that is Tony’s choice. It always will be.

But Tony is, in his heart, a multitasker. He has to be. His mind fires in too many directions a once, and for now, this might actually be a good thing; Because he won’t have the luxury to have some downtime later to think about the other elephant in the room calmly. The issue will not go away if he stops looking at it, as it usually and frustratingly does. In fact, the longer he ignores it, the more dangerous it will become. So he needs to do _both_. He needs to go out there, and save the people, because that’s what he _does_ , what’s what he _has_ to do—

But he has to be quick. He has to be as efficient, as careful, and as smart as he can possibly be.

He won’t have the time to stop and think, so he’ll need to come up with something while he’s out _there_. On the field.

He can do it.

He _can do it._

“Okay.” Pepper says a little breathless, and then frowns, her gaze focused and thoughtful. “Then what do we do from here?”

“I’ll have FRIDAY send a signal to all government lines still functional.” Tony says, thinking out loud. “We’ll see if we can get some help from any nation that might not have completely collapsed yet. But we still need to find a way to reach people who have already lost their communication lines. We need to remind them to stay calm and organize into groups, preferably in the same place. No one should be isolated because if something happens, they might get stuck or be hurt, and with everything destroyed, rescue won’t be able to find them – so they need to stay together.”

“Can FRIDAY hack in old SHIELD satellites?” Natasha suddenly asks.

“Depends on what you’re gonna use them for.” Tony hesitantly replies.

“We can send a signal to all surviving SHIELD agents still online. If they get the message, they can help with keeping the survivors organized.”

“I thought SHIELD had been destroyed years ago?” Rhodey asks, only a hint of an accusation in his voice.

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him. “You really think Fury spent all this time after SHIELD shut down playing golf?”

“Look, it doesn’t matter what Fury has or hasn’t been doing.” Tony says, before turning to Natasha. “You think you can reach them with just a message through FRIDAY?”

“Might be our best chance.”

“How many people?”

“I can’t tell. But they are all over the world, so even if we don’t reach many people, we still might be able to reach many places.”

Tony considers this for a moment, but seeing as he has no better ideas, he nods. “So we’ll do that too. And hopefully, it’ll be enough to buy us some time.”

“And then what?” Bruce asks.

“We go out there and help who we can. Just in the city, we can’t go too far. I don’t even know if we’ll be able to, depending on how many people are out there.”

“There’s a lot of people.” Pepper informs. “A lot of them injured. Some are gathering in public places, but I have no idea how many people are scattered across the city, maybe even trapped by the rubble from the accidents.”

Suddenly, Rogers stands up, and the strength in his posture and the steel sure fire in his otherwise guarded eyes is _exhausting_ to see, almost mocking, and Tony is half glad, half pissed off at the realization that not even the apocalypse can put out the burning pit of spite and rage that seems to forever live inside Steve Rogers, because it’s familiar, it’s almost comforting, and even if Tony can’t help but associate his stubbornness and righteousness with less than pleasant memories, he still feels, deep down, a little twinge of relief in knowing he’s not broken.

“So what’s our plan?” Rogers asks, and he almost sounds earnest and hopeful, so ready to act that is jarring to see in the middle of so many exhausted and defeated people.

And he looks at _Tony_ when he says it – he glances at Pepper, throwing her a confident look, but he _stares_ at Tony, his gaze razor sharp, and Tony shuffles uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

“We have to find the survivors and take them somewhere safe.” Pepper says, hugging Tony closer, but calling all the attention in the room to herself. “The first thing is to bring people to a secure location and keep them together. We need to know where people are, and where other people can go if they can reach help. Checkpoints.”

“We need safe houses.” Tony adds, his spine still tingling with the nagging leftover sensation of Rogers’ stare trickling down his back, the wary feeling of not getting the whole picture when it’s right there, but he ignores the uncomfortable sensation for now, in favor of more pressing matters. “Can’t put them in just any building ‘cause we don’t know which buildings are safe.”

“We’re not going to be able to save them all.” Natasha says, not to rip their plans apart or to be mean, but to be truthful.

“Then we’ll save who we can.” Rogers insists, in that _oh so familiar_ tone, not letting himself to be dragged down by the heavy weight of Natasha’s words.

“But we’re not enough.” Bruce anxiously reminds them. “This didn’t happen just here, it happened _all over the world_ , and we’ll never be fast enough to help everyone who needs it before—”

“We’ll think of something.” Rogers insists, and they all know it’s useless to argue with him when he’s like this, even Bruce, who closes his mouth and nods, despite the fact he still keeps squirming anxiously in his seat next to Thor.

“Bruce.” Tony calls him when he realizes that Bruce might be silently panicking, just a little bit, fearing they are all ignoring the seriousness of his arguments. Tony’s not. Believe him, he is _not._ “After we gather some information about what’s happening out there first-hand, we bring samples and start working on a solution for this. Tell me what you need to make some tests, and I’ll pick it all up when I can so we can start this as soon as possible.”

Bruce looks at him, grateful and afraid, and Tony knows what it feels like to be the only one in the room screaming arguments that don’t penetrate through people’s stubbornness and refusal to listen, so he really can’t berate Bruce for his fear of them not grasping the big picture of this issue. They are all people who constantly need to make harsh decisions over what to prioritize, what is immediate and what can wait; but for Bruce, who can analyze the data better than the others can, probably better than Tony himself can, the long-term issue can look just as scary, if not more.

Tony understands.

He knows what that feels like.

He feels it in his soul.

“I need to go out there to know for sure.” Tony explains himself to him, hoping that’ll give him a little comfort, a little assurance that Tony isn’t ignoring this, he’s just delaying it a little to gather more information on it, so they’ll know what to do. Because that’s all this is. Tony has been outside for no more than an hour, at most, and despite the hellish scenery he saw when they escaped the hospital he was being treated in, he hasn’t even starched the surface of how vast the destruction of Thanos’ attack had been. He saw the fire, he saw the body—

( ** _Peter—_** )

—The _boy_ , but that is not enough.

Tony has seen Titan, and he needs to _know._

“I wasn’t here. I didn’t see.” Tony says, and the words hurt like he’s being gutted. “So I need to go out there and see it for myself. To help people. And then, I’ll know how to fix it.”

Bruce looks at him, a little jittery but completely silent, until he releases a long, shaky exhale, and nods, looking at Tony with big, wide, trusting eyes, and despite all nervousness and anxiety agitating itself inside Tony, like the water dangerously crashing close to the shore, a flicker of warmth and content blooms in his chest, a small comfort in the middle of the storm.

When this exchange is over, Rhodey runs his hand over his mouth, breathing deeply, and takes one step closer and squares his shoulders, pushing down his despair and irritation and turning himself into the military man they all know he is deep inside, and asks, attentively to their previous planning:

“Okay, so the first thing is finding safehouses.” He reaffirms. “What sort of place would be a safe place in a time like this?”

“Here.” Rogers says, immediately, taking a quick look around. “It has power, water, and it’s big enough to house a lot of people.”

“People need medical assistance.” Pepper also reminds them, and she and several other people look at Bruce expectantly, and Bruce recoils instinctively and retracts into himself, stepping back.

“I can help, but I’m not enough.” Bruce says, a little exasperated. “I am one person, and the number of people outside that need help is certainly far more than what I’m capable of treating by myself. We need specialized crew.”

“What if we gather the surviving doctors and organize them into a team?” Natasha suggests, sounding a little more hopeful.

“That could work.” Thor agrees. “And the more people we gather, the more help we have to continue our search.”

“I don’t know if people will be able to help us with the rescues, Thor. They’ll be pretty traumatized.” The raccoon, _Rocket_ , Bruce called him, says.

“The odds of any mission can be improved if people work together.” Thor says, with a tiny, emotional smile quirking up the corner of his lips, and that sounds like it’s coming from an awfully personal place, something Thor is saying from the heart, more than just a mere motivational speech. “We’d have a better chance.”

It’s… It’s more hopeful than Tony expected them to be. They have something, at least. They have a plan. They have a purpose. Find survivors, organize them, reestablish order. It’s not as simple as it sounds, not one bit, but it’s something.

Against his better judgment, despite all evidence that their odds are not good – actually, they might be the worst odds that there ever existed – Tony feels… _happy_ , to seem them like this. To see them hopeful. To see them, wide-eyed and eager to fight, to see them _happy_ to be in agreement of something, to be—

 _Together_ , and having something to rely on, a common purpose, a goal.

It doesn’t feel familiar, not really. Maybe Tony is too tired, or too scarred, or too anything, really, to truly feel at ease, but he’ll take this small dose of comfort if he can, if it’s not too selfish, because he needs this to remind himself that this isn’t pointless. That he has to go on because he still has a job to do. That these people are counting on him, and he cannot disappoint them again.

He reaches up towards his shoulder, and put his hands over Pepper’s and squeezes.

She squeezes back, comfortingly.

And Tony sighs in relief then, because he knows she’ll be with him on this, she will have his back.  

“What sort of samples you’ll need, Doctor Banner?” Tony asks, a little more confidently, turning to Bruce with a renewed sense of hope for possibilities.

Bruce falters a little, his eyes going unfocused, a nonsensical hum leaving his lips. “Huh… _everything_?” he replies, “I need number estimates of how much of the vegetation we lost, how much of the ashes have already gone up to the atmosphere, how much of it is in the water, soil samples of places that have already rained on—"

“Basically anything, got it.” Tony concludes. “I can give you access to FRIDAY and you can start by inputting some essential research parameters and that should save us some time. She can run some diagnoses while we’re away, even if her equipment is a little damaged from the loss of the network.”

“We should have brought some of Princess Shuri’s beads.” Bruce says, but it doesn’t sound like he’s talking to anyone in particular, just himself. “Or anything, really. Her equipment is still working, if we could use it—”

“She has been gone since after the battle, Bruce.” Natasha says, softly. “There’s nothing we can do. We have to wait for her to come back.”

“We might not have a choice.” Bruce raises his eyebrows, surprisingly assertive. “The truth is that if she can help us, we might be able to pull this off. To go on rescue missions and save the planet at the same time.”

Natasha presses her lips in a tight line, thinking. “I’ll try to find her. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

Tony has never met T’Challa’s sister, Princess Shuri, but he has heard a lot. She’s a genius, apparently; From what he’s heard, she is the one responsible for most, if not all, technology in Wakanda, which sounds _incredible._ Tony would have loved to meet her, but he always assumed he would never get the chance. At least Bruce got the chance, which is something. He’s glad she’s alive, from what he can gather. Even though, by their conversation, Tony assumes she has been missing, but on _purpose._

Which Tony understands.

He doesn’t know how old princess Shuri is, but it doesn’t really matter in the end, because the fact is that she has just lost her brother, and who knows how many others. She is a princess, and many of her people have now also disappeared. Which also means that if Tony’s logic is correct, she is now, by all purposes, a _queen._

Queen of a mourning nation, in a decaying world.

Tony does not blame her for disappearing. He really doesn’t.

He wants to open his mouth to ask – _he has so many questions_ –, although he hesitates a bit, pondering over what words would be more sensible to ask more on the subject, but then—

The pounding in his head is getting louder and louder, his eyes are hurting so bad, he’s still aching all over, he’s hungry, he’s _tired_ , and _shit_ , he really thinks all this arguing and draining spikes of adrenaline might be getting too much for his old, poor body, and he needs to find some food quick and maybe some painkillers first, before he blacks out again without any notice. He’ll ask his questions on the way, if he still feels like it when they finally get there.

He doesn’t know how he’ll be feeling about the idea of _bonding over the last years_ in five minutes from now. Hell, he barely knows how he feels about it right now.

Yeah, sure, he’d love to talk about the genius princess of Wakanda, but now it’s not the time, is it? And the very implications that they had been in Wakanda in the first place – that is a _whole_ hornet nest that Tony won’t touch with a ten-foot pole right now. Maybe not ever.

He’ll ask his questions later.

Right now, they have no time.

“Before we go, does anyone want to grab a bite?” Tony jokingly says, getting up real, _real slow_ , hoping his discomfort can pass off as arrogance or, at the very least, nonchalance. “We might still have food around. We can’t go overboard and eat everything before we bring people back here, but there might be enough for all of us to have something.”

And _Nebula,_ who has been almost completely silent up until now, turns her gaze to him with sharp, cutting precision, as if she could _feel_ Tony’s pain and could easily see past it, and unthinkingly says:

“You haven’t eaten in three days.” And she probably would have said something else, she would have made a point, but the damage is _done_ , and everyone in the room snaps their heads back to him, their eyes wide.

“You _what?_ ” Rhodey asks, so incredulous he almost sounds accusing.

“It’s not a big deal, I’ll just eat something now.”

Rhodey’s eyes flash dangerously focused, deep concern etched into his features.  “How long has it been since you last slept?”

Tony sighs ruefully and admits, “A while.”

“You should rest.” Rogers says, kindly, and then he ruins it by allowing the ordering tone to bleed back into his voice as he says, “We can start moving tomorrow.”

Tony frowns at that, feeling a little unsettled.

Rhodey ribbing him about his habits? Fine. Normal routine, for them. Tony is used to it.

Rogers?

Rogers, who has been gone for years, _Rogers_ , who Tony can’t even look straight in the eye without fidgeting now, acting like that?

Yeah. Tony is _unsettled._

It’s not like he’s forgotten how Rogers is. He hasn’t. But something about his _ease_ in slipping back into his role as the leader, as the one who says orders and expects to be obeyed without preamble, it makes something uneasy twist in Tony’s stomach, something that is not bitterness nor rage, but just as uncomfortable, wary and reluctant.

I mean, _sure_ , he had let Tony make that final call about their plan – no, actually, they were all waiting for his input on it, because they knew that if someone was going to convince Bruce to be on board with going to the rescue missions first, it would be Tony, so—

It’s—

They aren’t fighting yet, which is _great_. It’s more than Tony thought it would be possible, a few months ago. Granted, Tony doesn’t want to fight anymore, he doesn’t even want to _think_ about it anymore, much less now when he’s got bigger concerns, but he can’t _stop_ himself from not liking that tone, that tone that he now associates with some bad things, with the memory of a time of willful ignorance and a lighter heart, that had come at a very high cost in the end. A thing that, to this day, Tony won’t allow himself to think if it was worth it or not.

Rogers isn’t wrong, and he knows that. Tony can feel the way his limbs are shaking from the strain and the pain behind his eyes is reaching a point where it’s becoming nearly unbearable, but is he _serious?_ Steve Rogers, the poster child for being reckless, for completely disregarding any sort of normal physical or mental strain in order to fulfill his mission, _Steve Rogers_ , is telling him to _rest_ , when the world is on _fire?_

What the fuck is going on here?

“We don’t have _time_ to rest.” Tony says, a little too harshly, a little too ready to pick up a fight if it proves necessary.

Rogers damn nearly startles, stepping back just a fraction, as if he’s surprised by Tony’s reaction. He blinks, once, and almost immediately his whole body goes stiff as marble again, and his voice comes out strained when he says:

“Tony—”

“ _Steve._ ” Shockingly, it’s _Natasha_ who says it, in a very dangerous warning tone, as she gets up and lays her hand on Roger’s forearm, fingers digging in, her gaze sharp as it bores into his when he whips his head to the side to look at her.

Tony would thank her if he didn’t know any better. Who knows what sort of creepy telepathic conversation they’re having right now. He doesn’t even know what Natasha is alerting him for. Is she trying to stop them from fighting? Well, that’s nice of her, but Tony doesn’t really care right now. He’ll fight Rogers if he has to, even if he is _tired_ and he doesn’t _want to_ , but he will, if Rogers continues to try and bench him when Tony is _literally_ only alive because his work isn’t done yet.

(Why else would he be here?)

He needs to do this. He needs to act, he needs to help.

He can’t waste his life.

“I know we don’t have time.” Rogers says, a little softer, after Natasha has released his arm slowly, still watching him like a hawk. “But we can’t have you getting hurt while we’re trying to save other people.”

“I can handle a little pain.” Tony argues, gritting his teeth.

“I know you can.” Rogers says. “But we don’t need to risk your life too, not after everything.”

“And what will you do? Sit tight while I take a nap, read a magazine and wait until I heal fully before going out to save the world?”

Rogers’ silence is all the answer he needs.

“No, you won’t.” Tony sneers. “As soon as I leave this room, you’ll grab the jet and fly to the city, and leave me here.”

“We’d need to fly over the city and find the best starting point.” Rogers points out, lamely, although if Tony didn’t know any better, the _confidence_ he uses in his voice might almost convince he knows what he’s talking about. “We would only scan the ground and come back.”

“ _Bullshit_.” Tony growls. “If you leave this Compound, I’m going too.”

Pepper’s hands grasp his arms anxiously, her voice calling his name in half-reprimand, half-desperation, but for the first time, Tony ignores her protest. He will not back down on this. He will not be left behind while they go on and risk their lives also being countless hours with no sleep and no sustenance. Tony knows he’s injured, but he doesn’t _care._ He just – He just fucking said they had to go out there _together._

“Tony.” Rogers exhales, softly, after a silent beat. “We won’t leave without you. I promise.”

(What good are your promises now, Cap?)

“You know I can just put the armor on and—”

“We’ll rest here for tonight too.” Rogers interrupts calmly, his voice oddly placating. “We also haven’t slept in days. We’ll all rest, and tomorrow, we all leave together. I’m not going to divide us again. From now on, we stay together.”

And it’s so _weird_ , so weird how earnest he sounds when he says that, like he truly believes it, like he’s that man from so many years before, the one who Tony still hadn’t realized had a dark side too, the one Tony had naively believed couldn’t lie, could be trusted.

“Tony.” Pepper interrupts their stare-down, running her hands softly through his hair, a sharp contrast to the firm, adamant tone in her words. “You can’t go out there while you’re still injured.”

“I won’t heal fast enough.” Tony argues back, shaking his head exasperatedly at her.

“But you need to heal _enough_.” She nearly commands. “You can’t put on a suit and go out there to lift buildings with your hands when you have a _stomach wound_. _You’re going to kill yourself._ ”

“I have to do this, Pep.” Tony mutters.

“I know.” She says, sadly. “But not today.”

Tony stares at her, pleadingly, because – because… Damn it, he can’t just stay here going nothing – They have to _go._ Doesn’t she know that, she knows that, she said it herself. They have to save the civilians.

Pepper stares back, and her eyes are kind but unyielding, the same fire Tony feels in himself when Rogers came too close, when he steeled everything inside himself to fight to defend his logic and get his way. If Tony insists on this, she’ll fight him, no hesitation, because she won’t allow him to go out there now that she knows this.

It’s that familiar argument.

The same old song and dance.

Tony can argue that this is a time-sensitive issue, Pepper will argue that if Tony goes out there like this, he’ll die.

And then—

(Tony will admit he doesn’t mind that. That he’ll do whatever he has to do.)

(And it always goes downhill from there.)

He lowers his head and closes his eyes, sighing, reminding himself not to shake his head or else he’ll deeply regret it, and Pepper _knows_ , because her hands relax their grip into a mere comfort hold, even before Tony says:

“Your rooms are still in the same place.” Tony tells them, gesturing in the vague direction of the other figures in the room, only vaguely seeing them at the edge of his peripheral vision, ashamed of raising his head and looking at them in the eye. “You can all stay there for the night.”

He thinks he hears a noise, something akin to a sharp inhale, but he pretends he doesn’t hear it.

“Those of you who have no rooms,” he glances at Nebula. “Can pick any room you like from the west wing. They’re all available.”

“There’s room in the west wing, now?” Natasha asks, too casually, with only the appropriate hint of confusion for it to sound innocent, but with a heavy, blatant presence of curiosity under it.

“We did some remodeling.” Tony eyes her, making it very clear that yes, it was not a random decision, but _no_ , he doesn’t want to talk about it, and she should just drop it.

She does. Good.

Now is not the time.

“I’ll get you something to eat.” Rhodey says, standing tall next to him, his voice giving no option to decline. “And you’re gonna eat it, and then you’re gonna sleep. And if you try to leave this building before us, I’m gonna disable your suit myself and you’ll be sitting here while we go out there and kick ass. You hear me?”

He smiles ruefully.

“I can’t promise anything, sour-patch.” Tony jokes, but his words are laced in apology and remorse.

Rhodey gives him a very pointed look, and Tony hands his head and nods, chastised, and only then, Rhodey’s posture relaxes a fraction.

“C’mon.” Rhodey says, throwing his arm around Tony’s shoulder, pulling him towards the kitchens with practiced ease, Pepper falling into step with them easily. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until you eat.”

“Or else what?” Tony arches an eyebrow, and Rhodey threateningly stares back, equally playful and ominous.

“It’ll be better for you if you don’t know.”

Tony lets himself be pulled away, pretending he can fall back with ease into the familiar warmth of the banter between him and his best friend, even as he’s feeling anxious and is so damned tired he can’t properly enjoy it; And tries very hard not to look back at the lounge, even as the stares at his retreating back seem to get harder and harder as he goes away; And only when they are finally around the corner and out of the sight of the others, Tony wonders if any of them were glaring not because of Tony’s poorly concealed injuries, but because they somehow noticed the little slip Rhodey made in his speech.

He doubts it.

But still.

He wonders.

(He hopes not.)

Tony’s room in the Compound is pristine.

It has been closed for a very long time, technically speaking, since it now only serves as a storage room that he rarely frequents and the only people who ever entered since he officially moved out was the cleaning staff. He hasn’t been sleeping here since he and Pepper got back together and he moved into his new place with her, somewhere small – or small _er_ , by his standards –, more homely, less… connected to the idea of life-risking missions and battlefields, and this bed has never really been used, just kept here in case of necessity, if someday, any emergency would force him to spend the night at the Compound and not back at home, in Pepper’s arms.

It had been his compromise. Part of it, anyway.

And he’d been glad to do so. Despite everything, he has wanted it, to have a home life with Pepper. A somewhat normal life. He had made peace with it.

And that hasn’t changed. When he opens the door and finds the huge bed untouched and cold, he realizes he _doesn’t_ miss it.

(A lie.)

(Not the room, that’s not what he misses.)

(But he misses what he used to feel, when he was here.)

(He misses—)

But it was worth it. it was worth it, he told himself, if it meant he’d get to keep Pepper Potts. And maybe it was the time, truly, to make some changes in his superhero life. He had been planning for it, pulling strings and organizing backup plans; He had been on the _cusp_ of succeeding, of finally reaching that perfect balance between what he needed and what Pepper needed, when it all came crashing down on him _again_.

There were times before, he remembers, where he tried to get her to understand. That he’d hoped, with all his strength and might, that she could once day see the world through his eyes, to understand exactly why he did what he did, and why he couldn’t stop, why, no matter how many suits he explodes or how many documents he signs, Iron Man is etched into him in a way he can’t ever remove, and even if he steps out, the lingering, quiet concern will always be there. Always at the corners. Always waiting to strike.

He had wished for that. For her to understand.

But he had never wished for it to be like this.

He had never wanted to see her shoulders slump as they walk towards the bedroom, to watch her shuffle by the bed awkwardly, as if the nervous energy inside her won’t let her sit still, despite how tired she obviously is, and to see her hesitate to sleep, like he once did, like he knows, so deeply, how it feels.

“Tony.” She whispers, raspy, but never follows with any other words.

She wants to say something, but she has nothing to say.

“Come here.” Tony slurs, opening her arms to her, and she walks closer with a bone-weary sigh and wraps her own arms around him, her head chin tucked neatly in his shoulder, her warm cheek against his neck; And her heartbeat to Tony’s chest.

It feels like relief, and it feels like deceit.

“Tomorrow.” She says, softly, but with a pause that indicates strongly that is not merely a comment, it’s a serious, deliberate request. “Can you please promise me you won’t put yourself into harm’s way at the first chance you get?”

“Pep—”

“Even if it’s to save someone.” She amends, firmly. “Even then. Promise me you won’t put yourself on the line if there’s any other way to do what you need to do.”

Like a flash, echoes of this conversation reverberate within the many corners of his memory, still feeling fresh and tender despite how old some of these memories are, how long they’ve been living inside him and repeating over and over like a broken record, an issue they can never get past, a pattern that is destined to be a stone in their way for as long as Tony fails to meet a middle ground between his instincts, and Pepper’s request.

He knows what she means. He does know. She’s not accusing him of anything…

(Not of anything that isn’t true.)

He recognizes that.

(But—)

“Okay.” Tony says, quietly. “I promise.”

And she hugs him tighter, and breathes deeply, and accepts this.

They lay down and curl around each other, unable to stand to be apart when so much has already stood in their way for the previous days, and they both fall asleep almost instantly; To a fitful, distraught sleep, the first of many in nights to come.

She accepts his answer.

Even if she knows, by precedent, that Tony’s promise usually turns out to be a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you can say "But Machi, is that it? This tiny piece of subjective conversation, that's what you mean by talking about it?", worry not: No, that's not it. There is more to come, my dear drama-loving friends. We'll go for the full meltdown, I promise, but unfortunately, this chapter had to be cut for word count reasons, because if you know me and my previous work, you know that this bastard does tend to get the best of me. 
> 
> So, actually, let me ask you a question. Do you mind if the chapters are this long, between 9-11k? That seems to be the pattern I'm falling into this time around. Let me know if you find it too much - or if you're a monster like myself, that reads 50k chapters and doesn't give a shit. This is a very long and very mentally exhausting story, so I want to make this experience comfortable for you. Let me know what you think. 
> 
> Also, if you've seen Captain Marvel, come scream about Carol with me on [tumblr](http://machi-kun.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/machi_writes)! And if you like my writing, please consider going to my twitter and checking out the pinned post there, it might be something you're interested in!
> 
> For anyone who might be freaking out about my posting schedule as we're getting closer to Endgame - I hope to bring at least another chapter before the movie launches, which I'll be seeing in the release date in my country, April 25. The next chapter is already in the works, with a big section already written, so it should come considerably faster than the previous ones. We'll continue to talk about Pepper and her influence in Tony's life and decisions, and her own development and story arc, now that she is, inescapably, part of the consequences of Tony's superhero side of life. 
> 
> See you next time, folks. Once again, thank you for reading, and I'll see you soon :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The people have spoken. Long chapters you want, long chapters you shall have ;))
> 
> Here is the thing, with consequences: If you don't see it, you never learn the lesson.
> 
> The problem with many of the MCU's unfinished business comes from this very negligence. It's easy to forget what consequences might've happened to all SHIELD agents who were suddenly exposed in CA:TWS, when all we can remember is a cool, self-assured speech that simply states that 'the world is safer now'. Hard to see the consequences of any sort of dangerous document that might pose a threat or not, when that document is forgotten in the next installment. Hard to gauge what is important, and what is not. 
> 
> Consequences rarely disappear just because you're not looking at them. In fact, if CW has taught us anything, is that if you're not paying attention, the consequences will corner you in the worst possible time. One would think the Avengers would have learned by now, but canon really makes very hard to believe it. 
> 
> So let me put it out there, to make sure it's very clear. Let me show you the consequences up close, so you can understand. First up: immediate consequences. 
> 
> We'll talk about the long term ones later. Because there are some, believe me.
> 
> And consequences often come with hard choices to be made. The worst and the best dilemmas rely on choices. The crux of every superhero story is always the same: do you sacrifice yourself to save others, or no? Do you move, or do you stay still and watch it happen? Mind you, I'm not complaining about this - in fact, this is how hero stories start. By choosing to move, when all others freeze. But when you're already a hero, it's not really a matter of if, is it? It's not if you save the world. You're going to. The problem is... how?
> 
> This chapter is a rough one, friends. Be careful. If you're worried about that something might be triggering, check this symbol here ! for a preview before diving in. 
> 
> Consequences. Choices. Priorities. What does that have to do with Pepper Potts? 
> 
> Well. Everything.

The next morning, there is a little sunlight.

But there is no comfort in it, no smiles, and no relief.

Exhaustion lets Tony sleep for full ten hours, which is more than he ever expected, and for once he’s grateful that his mind and body were so worn out not even his worst nightmares could stir him during the night. But the morning is still gloom. When he wakes up, Pepper is already awake, sitting against the headboard and staring quietly at the darkened, foggy window, unmoving; And cold, bleak dread floods Tony so completely he freezes still, like a deer in headlights, and he wishes _this_ was a nightmare, and wishes he could wake up from it and find the world still whole on the other side.

He _knows_ , from the vacant look in her face, the stiff posture of her shoulders, that her night has not been as blissfully blank as his. Her gaze lost, her hand loosely wrapped around his, her long, delicate fingers sweeping soft caresses across his knuckles – it’s all distant, laced in muted unease, and it makes Tony’s chest hurt and his heart heavy, raw despair that Tony can recognize in a glance, and he wants to make it better, but he doesn’t know _how._

His neck hurts like hell and his torso feels like it’s stuffed with cotton balls, full of a weird, swollen sensation, and his eyes feel like they’re almost taped shut with the amount of effort he has to make to open them.

But nothing compares to the awful feeling of him squeezing her hand, and her taking almost a full minute to squeeze back.

“Honey. Hey.” He whispers, shaking her hand minutely, as much he can without moving it from its position on her lap. “Did you sleep?”

“Yeah.” Pepper exhales softly, her voice a little hoarse. “A little. I did.”

“How long have you been awake?” _Did you have nightmares_ , is what he’s truly asking, but he has learned the hard way that this question cannot be asked with those words.

From personal experience.

Now he wishes he’d also learned how to deal with it properly. He never has. He dealt with his own nightmares and fears the same way he deals with any other problem, tinkering and trying unconventional options, trial and error, again and again, until he improves, until he finds a way out, until it _works_. And if it doesn’t, he just keeps doing it until it does. It doesn’t work as well with feelings at it does with machines. Tony knows how numbers behave, he knows their patterns and their strengths, so when a machine breaks, Tony knows exactly where to tweak to make it work again. But emotions are messy. They ever work that way. So when Tony tinkers, when Tony messes around with absurd options just so he can avoid the ones he doesn’t want to consider, when he does things other people would call madness, that’s his way of trying to find something that works. It’s him pushing the limits of the possibilities until he stumbles upon one that holds best.

But he knows that’s not normal. Hell, Pepper has said it to his face.

It’s not _normal_ , Tony. _Please, Tony, it’s not normal._

He’d known, and he didn’t listen.

He should have. He should have listened.

Because now it’s not him who needs it, and he doesn’t know what to do.

Pepper looks at him with her eyes glossy, a little wet, as if some emotion is bubbling inside her low and constant, verging on overwhelming, threatening to spill over at any time, and she’s keeping it down by sheer will. Her hold on his hand turns soft and caring, but her fingers are cold and clammy. In the crease of her brows, Tony sees the worry and the pain she’s hiding behind the small smile that pulls at the corner of her lips, the familiar strength of masking her sorrow with efficiency and a comforting posture, with the instinct of making herself strong to endure whatever hardship is threatening to push her down.

She doesn’t answer his question. Not really.

“It’s ok. I’m fine.” Is what she says, and Tony knows it’s a lie.

A lie he recognizes well. A lie he so deeply empathizes with that it echoes in his gut.

Tony doesn’t want her to hurt. Pepper – Pepper is the light of his life, she’s the reason why he struggled so hard to be functional and not lose himself to the call of the armor and of the fight, to the siren song of letting himself go to waste with nothing but revenge and mindless righteousness in his brain. She’s his ground, she’s his safe harbor, and to see her suffer _hurts_. He doesn’t want her to feel as he did. He doesn’t want her to not be able to sleep, not be able to rest, not be able to _think_.

He remembers the nights during the first months after the wormhole, the constant sizzling of anxiety in his veins, the flashing, turbulent images exploding behind his eyelids every time he dared to close his eyes – the night when Pepper finally _saw_ him, at his most vulnerable, and they both had been volatile and close to the point of combustion, _emotionally_ , and then _literally_ , and it was so easy to be swept away by the illusion of comfort that a clean slate can give, after everything. His nightmares… His PTSD is the reason why he started to try finding a middle ground between them, the reason why he slowly but surely tried to cut himself off the superhero business, even if ineffectively, he _tried_ because he didn’t want to cause _this_ to her.

Tony had been living two separate lives because this was the only way he could’ve kept Pepper safe. He realized that, after Killian. Pepper couldn’t be a consequence to his own addictions and vices, to his work and the _insatiable,_ inescapable temptation of the skies and the adrenaline. It took work, it took so many fights and so much heartache, but he had almost done it. He had almost made himself normal again, almost made it back to the man he was before Extremis, before the wormhole, before he couldn’t _sleep_.

She hadn’t known, then, how to help him. To be honest, Tony doesn’t even know if he can be helped by any normal methods.

But the idea of it was tempting enough, so tempting, that he couldn’t quit. That’s all it takes, sometimes; Tony needs to see the big picture, he needs to see the future he so desperately wants, to feel it close but just outside his reach, so something in him ignites and bursts into flame, and pushes him forward. And that had been Pepper. For him, she had been it. The idea of finally reaching a point where they both met in the middle, where he finally reached the balance between his mission and his love, that was the goal Tony had always been trying to reach.

But this is how Tony works.

How can he help her get through this? When he still doesn’t know to work it out fully himself? If him being here and holding her hand is not enough, what can he do?

“Do you want to talk?” He asks, as kindly as he can. “About what happened? Out there?”

“I don’t know.” Pepper admits, sniffing discretely, but still keeping the tight smile on her face. “It’s been a lot, Tony. It’s – It’s difficult.”

“I know, honey.” Tony admits sorrowfully. “I just… I want to help you.”

Pepper looks at him, her eyes gleaming with emotion, and Tony can’t help but amend, his own throat constricting, “I want you to know I’m here for you.”

“I know.” Pepper replies. “Thank you.”

Overwhelmed, Tony pushes himself up by his elbows, even if it stings on his abdomen, and finds a position with enough stability so he can sit up without removing his hand from hers for as long as he can. But it’s inevitable. As soon as he can lean against the headboard as well, he opens his arms and she falls into him, they both drawn against the hold of one another, and she fits her head against his shoulder and sighs in a tight, shuddering breath, enveloping him in a careful hug, and he feels the tension is her from the way her arms tighten and flex even as they stay gentle around him, the twitch in her muscles, the anxiety that brews silently within.

He wants to be here forever. He wants the world to disappear, just for a while, just so he can lay here next to her and let her take whatever comfort she can take from him, from having a warm, solid body laying next to her own, to have her hand held, to have someone else in the room to remind herself that she is not alone. Sometimes that helps. Tony can count in one hand the number of times he has ever seen her this vulnerable, to melt in his arms not out of affection but of fear, and he hates that he has one more to add to the list. And now, they no longer have the luxury of a pause to breathe or the soothing voice of a therapist to help her unravel the irrational things her brain might be telling her after experiencing a traumatic event, which Tone knew she’d done, despite the fact he never did.

Maybe that’s all he can do for her. To sit here and hold her, as she holds him.

And hope they won’t fall apart.

“I’m going with you out there today, Tony.” Pepper unexpectedly says, and Tony startles, both by the surprise of her voice breaking the silence and the meaning of her words.

“What?” He croaks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean _exactly_ what I just said.” Pepper insists. “I’m not sitting here while you go out there and risk your life. I can help. So, I’m going too.”

“Pep. Honey.” Tony fumbles, confused. “You can’t—”

“You made me an armor, Tony.” Pepper argues. “Isn’t that what that was? The armor that came for me in the hospital? An armor, for me.”

Well, it was—

_It wasn’t meant for that._

It was just… That had just been Tony, being paranoid and overprotective.

She was never meant to use it as he did.

“It was…” He falters. “It was just a safety measure. I know how you feel about the armor. I know you don’t…”

“I have nothing against the armor.” Pepper shakes her head, backing away from the embrace, and Tony immediately feels cold without her, even if she’s only far enough to look into his eyes. “It’s what you do when you wear it that worries me.”

“I save people.”

“Yeah.” Pepper says, as gently as she can. “I know. And you also put yourself at risk, every single time.”

Tony doesn’t know how to respond. It feels like this is eerily similar to all their previous arguments about this, but _not._ This is not a fight. Pepper is simply… She’s just _saying_ it, like a reluctant truth, like an old wound that sometimes still feels tender. Tony doesn’t know if she should try to explain himself, although he doesn’t know what difference it would make, because he has done it so many times before, or if he should just stay silent and don’t pretend she’s saying anything but the truth. This is not a fight. So maybe he shouldn’t fight it.

(But—)

“I can use the armor.” Pepper assures him. “I’m going to use it, and I’m going with you. I can help. I’ve been out there, I know what happened. I can’t sit here and do nothing while you guys are out there.”

“Are you sure?” he insists.

“Not like I haven’t worn it before.” Pepper huffs out a laugh, a bit hollow, and the smile she gives him has an edge of old pain that stings on his chest.

“Not to a fight.” Tony frowns morosely. “It still can be dangerous.”

“It’s not a fight.” Pepper sadly replies. “It’s a rescue. We have to rescue the people out there, Tony. All of us.”

He understands where she’s coming from. Past his worry, his screaming, almost overbearing instinct to refuse and keep her where he thinks she’ll be safe, he gets it. Both Tony and Pepper are fixers, they ache for purpose when they are left idle, and they can’t stand the idea of not helping when they can. And they need all the hands they can get. Tony reacted so viciously against the idea of being left behind while the others flew back to the city, what argument could he have against Pepper following them? Pepper, who Tony knows can hold her own, better than he can sometimes, Pepper, who will never forgive herself for standing still when she could step forward and help.

He can’t fight her on this. Not when they are the same.

“Okay.” Tony says, breathlessly. “We do this together.”

Pepper smiles, and holds his hands, and Tony, forever the hopeless dreamer, always the fool who wishes for far too much, dares to think:

_Maybe this is it._

Maybe this is their common ground. Such a high cost to pay to finally reach it, a price that’s not worth it, a disaster so great that it drains away any elation he could have felt in this moment; A common ground achieved not by finally reaching a complete, unconditional agreement, but a defeat, a necessity of yielding in sake of survival, of finally, _finally_ , seeing the world through each other’s eyes, only to realize the world is crumbling.

He would have gladly spent the rest of his life fighting her if it meant this hadn’t happened like this.

But maybe this is truly it. Their middle.

He is too hurt to feel glad about it.

 

They meet the others in the kitchen.

By _the others_ , he means _everyone_ , because apparently, they’ve all been up for a long time, if they even slept in the first place. But it looks like they’ve eaten, at least. They look surprisingly resolute and steady, their bodies still tired and slumped wherever they sit, their formation still wobbly, but their eyes steely with resolve and determination; And it’s equally exhausting and refreshing to see, stirring heartstrings Tony hadn’t realized he still had left inside him, an old, rusty sense of familiarity, that he now feels he has no right to keep.

It’s easier, then, to focus on Nebula. Selfishly, he thinks the awkwardness between her and the others helps. He’s not grateful for it, but when he sees her sitting a little further away from the others, with the raccoon, _Rocket_ , by her side, her eyes less intense but no less alert, his mind goes quiet in that turbulent place where all his doubts lie, where the creeping feeling of wariness slithers up his spine like a snake, to give voice to a softer voice, to a new, kind of fragile worry, to his ever-present desire to _fix—_

To help, to forget to be helpless.

Having her here as a reminder of how this is _different_ , this is not the same, that he can’t focus on the past because they are dealing with the future now, and it helps. To see her in front of him, to see Rhodey, to have Pepper’s hand in his, it’s a reminder that he still has anchors. That despite what he feels, the world has not yet swallowed him whole.

Yet.

That’s what makes him walk into the room with his back straight, with as much composure and calm as he can, even though his chest still feels like it weighs a ton. It’s not a matter of dignity, not really. It’s not even him putting up his guards, although he feels like he _should_ , because lately, he feels like he’s been walking around with his chest burst wide open, with his beating heart exposed, to bruise and to scar, to _hurt._ But it isn’t that.

Tony walks in with his head up high because they are going out there and saving people, and that is all that matters. He’s going to push down his worries and his hurt and he’ll do his job, he’ll save this world, no matter the cost, because this is not about _him._ Whatever unease he feels when he walks into that room, whatever gap he can still feel, wide and ominous, between himself and those on the other side, this is not about _him_ , his squabble with his former teammates can wait until they have stopped the world from collapsing into itself to bother him over petty things.

He can do this and still keep himself composed. He has to.

He is an Avenger.

He has bigger problems to be scared to walk into a room with people he _knows_ he can take down.

(If he wants to.)

(If he needs to.)

(Which he won’t.)

(He _won’t_.)

Thor is actually the first one to notice Tony and Pepper approaching because he’s sitting right across from the door. His eyes snap wide and alert when he sees movement, and they all follow his suit, so by the time Tony manages to get close enough to murmur a _hey_ to them, they are all watching him approach the same way one watches a very rare, easily spooked animal, with fascination and careful movements, and Tony, in some other life, might have felt insulted.

But it’s hard to feel insulted by it now.

I mean, what kind of argument does he have against that?

They are all so out of touch with what means to have normal reactions or a normal life. What was he expecting other than awkward, heavy, stifling silence, with the history between them?

Tony ignores them. It’s the only reaction he can think to have.

The one who looks worse for wear, actually, is Bruce. The others look fine, as far as you can call them that, but Bruce is in a whole entire level of distraught before Tony. He sits between Thor and Natasha, his hands wrapped around a mug, fingers drumming anxiously around the ceramic, body hunched – and his eyes are _haunted_ , wide and unfocused, with huge purple bags underneath, and a pale complexion, and to lock gazes with him is scary, because…. Because that’s what it is.

Bruce is _scared._ And _then,_ Tony feels immensely, overwhelmingly guilty.

“Did you manage to sleep?” Tony asks in the general direction of the room, to all of them, and they all give varying uneasy nods, eyes skirting away – even Nebula and the raccoon, when Tony shoots them a glance a little more intense, worry burning in his guts. Tony believes some of them. Some, not all.

Pepper squeezes his hand, a silent call, and when they trade looks, she discretely points at Bruce for him, just as perceptive, and Tony takes her sign as support, and turns back to the kitchen.

“Before we go, I need your help, Brucie.” Tony says, his voice extremely casual, which is good, because as soon as Tony says his name, Bruce damn near startles. “I need you to come with me down to the med bay.”

Tony doesn’t actually need Bruce’s help, but he’ll say he does, if that takes Bruce out of that room for a couple minutes. He doesn’t look close to going green, but if he is going green, Tony would like to avoid it. And maybe more than anyone else in this room, maybe even more than Rhodey, Bruce is neutral ground, he is the only voice Tony will stand to hear with any composure, until the raw, vulnerable feeling sleep left lingering behind, the hold of Pepper’s hand still searing in his own, finally gives a little, and lets him  _breathe_ like his chest isn't caving in on itself.

So, no, Tony doesn’t actually need him.

But Bruce is his _friend._

“Me?” Bruce raises his eyebrows.

“Who else?” Tony shrugs exasperatedly in his direction. “C’mon. Help me stitching this out, would you?”

“Are you hurt?” Nebula interjects, worriedly, her face distorting to something too similar to a frown.

“Not any more than I was yesterday.” Tony assures her softly. “But we can fix that. If Bruce comes down to the bay with me?”

“What do you need me for?” Bruce asks raggedly, as he gets up from his spot and walks up to Tony stiffly, and Tony is suddenly very aware of the fact that all the others are _staring_ at them, listening in without even attempting to disguise it. Although, Tony ruefully thinks, what’s the point in trying?

“We brought some of Dr. Cho’s equipment with us when we moved here.” Tony answers, although he doubts anyone but him remembers it. He had only remembered it this morning, after all. “The synthetic tissue cradle is somewhere around here. I’m gonna close this wound and I’ll be good as new.”

“Cho.” Bruce exhales. “Is she alive?”

“We don’t know yet.” Tony admits. “FRIDAY is tracking her.”

“If you couldn’t find her yet—”

“It’s still running.” Tony interrupts. “Let’s not jump into conclusions, okay? She could be out there. As long as we’re looking, let’s keep our hopes up.”

Bruce looks like he wants to argue, but he shakes his head forcefully, trying to dispel dark thoughts, and nods firmly, injecting his voice with strength. “You’re right. It’s true, you’re right.”

Tony had almost forgotten what it’s like, to have Bruce around. He missed terribly. Bruce is such a good man, a brilliant mind who has been dealt a tough hand, with the lines on where he refuses to be diminished and where he refuses to be uplifted so tangled together it looks like a mess of exposed wires, that has to be dealt with calmly, with ease and respect, or else it falls apart. Sounds terrifying, for a guy who has to control the Hulk, but’s it’s really not. It’s so… It’s so _genuine_ , so comfortingly refreshing, no second intentions, no hidden reasons. Transparency.

Tony has missed Bruce.

It’s one of the few people Tony misses without guilt.

“Pep, why don’t you go eat something?” Tony suggests gently, throwing her a quick look.

Pepper, of course, recognizes Tony’s word for what they really are, a request for some private time with Bruce, but she still hesitates a little, her brows furrowed slightly. “You need to eat something too.”

“Save something for me, alright?” Tony squeezes her hand, tempted to raise it to his lips and give it a kiss, but the weight of the stares on them stops him from doing it. “I’ll be right back.”

Pepper nods slowly, squeezing his hand back, but she lets him go, trusting, and Tony draws in a huge, long breath, even if it stings on his ribs; and the cold air flooding in his lungs keeps him clear-headed, keep his awake, keeps him focused.

Tony and Bruce walk out quietly, with the weight of the stares burning behind them, heads dropped close in hushed conversation as they cross the corridors down to the medical bay. Or rather – Tony walks to the medical bay, encouraging Bruce to come along, and Bruce follows him a little hesitantly, unaware of how to navigate through the building with the confidence of someone who knows the place.

It’s hard to remember that Bruce never actually had the chance to know the Compound. That it really has been _that long_ since they last been together.

(Only another reminder of how much time they’ve missed.)

“Are you guys okay?” Bruce suddenly asks, confusing Tony. At his expression, Bruce sneaks a glance behind him, even if they have already turned a corner and the kitchen can no longer be seen. “You and Pepper. I thought…?”

Tony suddenly realizes that this is yet another thing Bruce has missed. Bruce had gone away right after they had destroyed Ultron – Tony and Pepper had been on a break then. _One of many_ , Tony bleakly remembers.

His confusion makes sense, then.

(But then again.)

(Tony wouldn’t blame him for being confused even if he had been present.)

Tony doesn’t know the answer to that himself. “As well as we can be.”

“I thought you guys were having a…” He flails, making a weird, exasperated expression, and Tony knows what he means, and decides to spare him the struggle.

“We worked It out.” He cryptically answers, unwilling to reminisce on the old conflicts of his relationship now, or ever, not if he has any say in it, because he knows they won’t understand.

“Tony, listen.” Bruce insists, putting his hand across Tony’s chest to make him stop walking, gently, barely a brush of fingers against his torso, a trickle of familiarity against his wounded stomach. “If you wanna wait—”

“We can’t wait, Bruce, you know that.”

“Did you even sleep last night?” Bruce prods, disbelieving.

Tony, irrationally, kind of takes offense to that, a little. “As a matter of fact, I did. Pepper can confirm it.”

The worry in Bruce’s eyes is so clear and tangible, nearly like a physical touch, and Tony’s chest aches with how much emotion the proof of Bruce’s care for him can reach, how much he wishes he could accept it easily and let himself bask in the comfort of knowing that Bruce wants to _help_ , but he can’t. Tony is holding himself upright by pure will, by chanting to himself aloud, blaring reminder that _he has a mission_ , and if he lets himself be vulnerable, he doesn’t know what will happen to him.

“You were gone for days, Tony. In _space._ We didn’t know— We were _worried._ ”

Tony ducks his head down, hasting forward when they finally reach the med bay, and he pretends not to see Bruce following him with anxious strides and anticipatory stares as he punches in the entrance code, because his throat is closing up with words that are too big to fit his mouth, too heavy, too _knowing_ , because there’s no way he can say _I’m sorry_ and _Thank you_ and _Don’t_ in the same breath.

So he doesn’t.

He steps inside and Bruce follows, and the awkwardness of his silence compels Bruce to drop it for a moment, and they both get to work of gearing up the machine and getting some supplies in tense, fragile quiet. It’s not fair to Bruce, making him uncomfortable to stop him from insisting on his questioning, but what can Tony do? What can he possibly say? That he’s sorry he worried them? He didn’t mean to. He went out there to try and save the world, and they all know that there’s always a chance he won’t come back. He didn’t even know if he would make it back. It’s the burden of their occupation. And even if they were worried, which still makes Tony’s heart squeeze painfully, like a fist going around it and holding so tight onto it that it nearly stops beating, he cannot dwell in it.

_Are you okay? We were worried._

It’s an invitation to be open. To be vulnerable. To share his burdens.

Tony won’t.

This is his burden to carry.

Tony pulls the regeneration machine closer to the bed while Bruce gathers some antiseptic, needles, and the activation components to the table beside it, and he does; Suddenly, they are together in the same space again, and Tony makes the mistake of looking Bruce right in the eyes – and in them, the nervousness isn’t gone at all, and the proximity and the eye contact make Bruce bold again, gives him strength, and before Tony can find a distraction, he is cornered.

“Look.” Bruce starts. “What happened to you out there—”

“Now it’s not— It’s not the time to talk about it, alright?”  Tony gently asks, but it doesn’t have enough strength to stop Bruce from continuing.

“What we saw in Wakanda, Tony…”

“I thought I said we weren’t talking about it yet, but—” Tony sarcastically interrupts, a little louder this time, and Bruce still completely ignores him.

“It was insane.” Bruce exhales, his eyes wide and a little crazed, lost in memory, even as he helps Tony up the bed and starts to remove his bandages. “His army. Did you _see_ him?”

“I did.” Tony holds up his arms, to allow Bruce access to his wound. “How do you think I got stabbed?”

“You got _stabbed?_ ” Bruce exclaims, gawking at his stomach. “Is _that_ what your wound _is?_ ”

“Doesn’t matter, you’ll fix me up in no time.” Tony waves off, but then exhales heavily. “But yeah. I saw him.”

“We thought—” Bruce stutters. “We thought he had killed you.”

Tony stays silent.

(He had thought Thanos had killed him too.)

He lays down and Bruce sets up the machine, and the cold of the bed against his naked chest makes Tony shiver, the hairs on his forearms standing up with a prickly sensation, his muscles tense. The acute awareness of it is the only thing that stops him from blurting out something he will regret, so he welcomes it, and he lays his head down and breathes in deeply, his thoughts in turmoil, and watching Bruce the only thing he has available to distract him from the temptation of _thinking about it._

About when he almost died, and then, he _didn’t_.

The sweep of the glowing ray of the regeneration machine feels like nothing at all on his wound. Bruce had to cut off his stitches, as carefully as he could, and the tug on his skin as he did so had more sensation to it than the direct action of Dr. Cho’s machine, just as she promised once. Bruce holds Tony down with a careful, merely mindful hand, to prevent him from slipping into an odd angle, and the machine works making almost no sound at all, gentle, and as Bruce watches it, with the soft blue glow of it illuminating his face, Tony watches Bruce.

“He showed up with the Time Stone and you were gone.” Bruce murmurs, when he feels he’ s being watched. “And even if he hadn’t killed you, when he snapped his fingers there was a fifty percent chance…”

“I’m here.” Tony interrupts, uncomfortable. “Okay? Doesn’t matter. I’m here.”

“We tried to stop him.” Bruce tells him frantically. “We destroyed the Stone.”

Tony’s brows shoot up all the way to his hairline. “What?”

“Vision figured it out. He said that if we exposed the Stone to something as strong as itself, we could destroy it.” He pauses, heavily. “So he asked Wanda to do it.”

Tony’s body flinches violently, and quickly, he’s grateful that Bruce is holding him in place, or else he would have jostled out of the position under the bright light of the regenerator and completely messed the procedure. But that also means that Bruce _felt_ him flinch, and that is twice as mortifying, if not more.

Bruce looks down at him with something akin to muted pity in his eyes, a mellow, sad sympathy; And Tony realizes that despite being away for the past two years, there is understanding of Tony’s reaction in his gaze. Knowing. Bruce must have realized, somewhere during the small time he and the others had been reunited after two whole years, even if he barely spend any time at all with Vision and Wanda compared to them, what that request must have meant.

Which is…

It’s—

Overwhelming.

Not that Tony had seen it much, with his own eyes – but Tony thinks he knows more than most. Because he had been there. He had been… He had been back at the Compound when Vision started to roam the hallways aimlessly, the books he found so interesting no longer hold his attention, to find him in the kitchen, staring at nothing, looking frighteningly human and not human at the same time.

Tony had known, and even if he never understood, he never stopped it. Why… Why would he? What sort of moral ground did he have to stop Vision from chasing the company of the person he cared for? Perhaps even loved, if… if he ever figured out if he was capable of that? Tony didn’t know for sure. He hadn’t dared to ask. It was not his place. Tony still remembers coming into the compound and seeing the destruction left behind, the lounge in disarray, _the hole on the floor_ , and that part of him that still ached with the absence of JARVIS, the one that’s too attached to his creations and considers them their children, even Vision, even if he won’t admit out loud, that part had cried in echoing despair, in _recognition_ of the hurt, and in outrage that screamed _Why?_

(Why would you miss someone who hurt you?)

(How can you be so naïve?)

(Don’t you know what it does to you?)

At least, Tony had thought he had recognized it.

Until Vision asked him to use the tracker for the radiation signature of the Infinity Stones.

Tony had known immediately what that meant.

No one else knows when Vision started to disappear from the Compound. No one else but Tony. No one else knows that Vision asked for his permission to use the tracker in order to search for Wanda’s energy signatures, no one knows that Vision sometimes was gone for days, maybe an entire week, until he came back, looking more and more like it killed him every time. No one. Just Tony. And Tony had watched while pretending not to, turning his head, very emphatically making it _not his business_ , because watching to closely meant more than admitting he was going against the thing he was fighting for every day – it meant admitting something Tony already knew, but wasn’t ready to think about, because he doesn’t like what it says about Vision, about their agreement, and about _himself._

(Vision is stronger than him. Was.)

(It’s just how it is.)

(Like all children, he had been stronger than his father.)

( _I couldn’t._ )

( _I just—_ )

( _I couldn’t._ )

“Did she?” Tony asks, in a breathless whisper.

Bruce nods in jerky motions, sorrowful, and Tony’s heart plummets.

_Fuck._

_Wanda._

He doesn’t—

_Shit._

(But the pieces don’t fit, do they?)

(After all—)

(The son of a bitch still _won._ )

“She destroyed it, but—" Bruce coughs, the words getting choked up in his throat, too big to be uttered, too painful. “He had the Time Stone. He turned back time and made it whole again.”

Tony’s eyes widen, a terrible, heartbreaking recognition dawning on him, brutal in its wake, and he can only lay there, frozen, as the machine makes one tiny sound to indicate it has completed its job and Bruce occupies himself by pulling it away, getting his hands busy to distract himself, not noticing that Tony _can’t move._

“You were right.” Bruce frowns, tightly, his mouth twisted in ugly, mournful expression, defeat etched in his face – unaware of the storm that screams inside Tony’s chest. “It was his best chance against us.” 

The ringing in Tony’s ears is loud, shrill and hysterical, his heart beats fast and painful, like it’s pulling too tight, nearly imploding inside his ribcage.

He was right.

_No._

Damn it, _no._

_No._

“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out of Tony’s mouth, and he can’t take them back, he can’t, he’s already halfway through a speech he has no strength to handle, so he quickly turns it into something else, because he can’t even begin to express what he feels, he _can’t_. “I’m sorry I couldn’t support you yesterday. I understand why you’re worried, I really do. Probably better than everyone else. But I couldn’t—"

Bruce blinks confusedly for a second, not following Tony’s abrupt turn of the subject matter, until he realizes Tony is talking about the _discussion_ of the day before, and how Tony, the only person who could agree with Bruce on his side of the debate, had left him hanging for the other option.

“No, I get it.” Bruce reassures after a beat, even if his tone is still dripping in sadness. “Short-term, it makes more sense to prioritize rescue missions. I get it, I do. It’s just… I looked through some old papers.” He shivers. “And it doesn’t look good, Tony. It’s bad.”

Tony gets up slowly, distantly realizing his wound now feels pleasantly numb, no longer stinging or pulling sharply at the edges, but he barely looks down at it as he asks, his eyes still locked on Bruce, “How bad?”

“I don’t know how much ash we have out there. I don’t know how much each individual… left behind, when he snapped his fingers. Maybe a hundred? Two? Less, more? We don’t know.” Bruce shrugs defensively. “What about the trees and the animals? We have no way of calculating those. Worst case scenario, we might be talking over one hundred tons of ash. Maybe _more._ ”

He starts to wrap Tony up again, just in case, but Tony can see his eyes are distant. His hands are cold.

“It wasn’t localized, like a bomb, it was _all over the world._ That means it doesn’t take the same time to spread. It takes _less._ ” Bruce explains. “If it keeps going up at the rate that it is right now, we might only have sunlight for a couple of hours each day, and the exposure might even decrease over time.”

“People can survive that.” Tony reminds him, undeterred. “People live in places where they don’t see the sun for more than an hour and they survive, Bruce.”

“They aren’t breathing _hyper polluted air,_ Tony.” Bruce argues back. “And what about the food? Water?”

“There are ways.” Tony affirms. “We can fix this, we just need the numbers. If we get enough people maintaining the system like it used to be, water, power, we can work on cleaning the air before it shuts us down completely. Nature does it all the time, right? It’s not her first time. We’re just gonna give her a push. Our species survived the Ice Age, Bruce, we can do this. We have to.”

“I hope you’re right.” Bruce murmurs, as he stands back up, and he looks Tony straight in the eye – and his words, suddenly, seem like a plea.

“Yeah.” Tony mumbles to himself.

_So do I._

 

When they go back to the kitchen, they walk quietly. They are both lost in deep thoughts, concerns and doubts poorly concealed beneath the fronts of strength they put forward in favor of their mission; and maybe that’s why no one hears them coming closer, not until they are already back at the kitchen, and they halt right by the door, suddenly alert.

They find the others in a tense, suffocating quiet, a strained stillness, shoulders hunched in defensiveness and aggression, the all too familiar stench of animosity clouding the room the same way the darkness swallows the world outside.

_Oh God. What happened?_

Rhodey, Pepper, Natasha, and Rogers, all of them are standing up and stiff in their places, and Tony almost panics before they notice him and Bruce on the doorway, immediately jumping to the worst possible conclusions, when he realizes they aren’t scared, they’re _tense._

“Tony.” Rhodey calls, urgently, but no words follow up to his call. But in his tone, Tony hears a thousand things.

 _Tony,_ did you know about this?

 _Tony_ , you can’t be serious.

 _Tony,_ are you sure?

_Tony._

_Tony!_

Completely at lost, Tony turns to Pepper – and Pepper’s gaze is steely, hard, unyielding stone, her teeth shut together in a false composure, _indignant_ , and Tony’s brain immediately goes—

_Oh._

_Shit._

_She told them. She told them, and he wasn’t in the room._

_Shit. Shit, shit._

“Tony.” Natasha calls, her tone carefully blank, no judgement, but no understanding. “Did you guys talk about this?”

Bruce frowns at him deeply, terribly confused, and Tony steps forward and raises his hands in a placating gesture. “We did, but – Listen, okay?”

“Do you agree?” Again, overly sterile, not a single hint of any emotion beneath.

Still, it’s a loaded question. It’s such a loaded question. They all look at him and Tony has a terrible déjà vu of the previous day, of their stares and their expectations, of the weight of his words, of his choice.

This morning, Pepper decided she wants to fight. No – Not fight, it’s not a fight, but she wants to put on the suit and go out there with them, she wants to help, in whatever way she can. And Tony understood.

And Tony agreed.

“Yes.” He says, in a deep exhale. “I do.”

Rhodey makes a weird noise, tight and troubled, shifting in place, but he doesn’t argue. He simply breathes in, stares, and settles. And for Rhodey, that is that.

For the others, not so much.

“Stark, with all due respect,” Thor politely says, all soft, disheartened words. “Ms. Potts has no training. She’s not a warrior.”

“Pepper.” Rogers calls back her attention, and all of them turn, Pepper’s head snapping to him sharply, no concession or surrender in her posture or her eyes. Rogers probably makes it worse, with his tone, low and sad, which he probably thinks that comes off as sympathetic, but for a woman like Pepper, it only sounds _condescending_. “We can’t risk your life for the sake of a mission. We can’t.”

“And why exactly do you think you need to worry about me?” Pepper snaps back, indignant. “I am more than capable of operating the armor. Do you worry about Tony when he’s fighting in it?”

(Oh, Red Alert.)

(Red Alert.)

(This conversation has to stop, _now._ )

Roger’s face twists something ugly, like it hurts him, and he takes long enough to answer that he gets easily interrupted.

“Wait, I’m confused. The armor?” Bruce asks.

Tony sighs, tired, all of a sudden feeling like his soul is being sucked out of him, like the mere negative feeling of the room hits him like a physical blow, and he says, knowing that what will follow will not make it better. “She wants to go out there with us. In an armor, like me.”

Bruce’s eyes go wide as saucers. “Tony—”

“She has an armor of her own.” He explains.

“What?” Bruce stammers, and his confusion echoes everyone else’s. “Since when?”

“I made one for her.” Which is not a lie, but also doesn’t exactly answers Bruce’s question; And Tony thinks it’s for the best, because although he knows Pepper is more than capable of using it, and she will have access to FRIDAY just like Tony has, the armor had been a secret until a few hours ago, because Pepper had never been supposed to actually have the chance to _use_ it.

“Tony, you can’t take Pepper to a fight. She’s a civilian.”

“I am right here.” Pepper reminds him sharply, insulted for being talked over, and Bruce immediately steps back and apologizes, but his eyes still express his disapproval and doubt so clearly that he could be saying it out loud.  

“It’s not a fight, it’s a rescue.” Tony repeats the words echoing in his mind, hoping they will sound more convincing if he says them for them to hear, if he repeats them enough so they’ll feel true, and his heart will stop beating a troubled, worried tattoo against his cold sternum, threatening to crack his ribs with the sheer force of its pulse. “Listen. I’m not… I’m not gonna do that to her. I’m not gonna disagree, because she’s got a point. She won’t stand staying behind while we’re out there. And she can _help_. She can. You all know that.”

Maybe it’s his cracking voice, or the frantic way he widens his eyes, or the defensiveness in his rigid shoulders – Bruce looks at him for a long second, and Tony stares back, and it’s awkward, and tense, and when no one finds any words to say, Pepper steps forward:

“I’ve been in New York for the past three days. I _know_ what happened. I _saw_ it.” She fiercely reminds them, and if there’s despair edging at the corner of her words, if there’s a wetness that drips beneath her tone, that makes her sound like she’s not as impenetrable as she looks – well, no one calls her on it. “People are scared out there, and I’m not going to sit here and _wait_ , knowing what’s going on.”

The others look troubled, trading glances, and Tony understands their hesitation and is furious and is saddened by it at the same time, all at once, and he can’t find a way to properly express it without sounding like a maniac, so he _doesn’t._ He just stands there as watches as they all consider this nervously, and hopes with all his might they’ll just _agree_ and drop it, because if they argue, Tony _knows_ he’ll say things he will regret.

(Not the first time they’d include someone on the team on a whim.)

(Why is this different?)

“Are you sure about this?” Rogers asks, his eyes so damned intense it hurts to look at him. “It might be dangerous.”

“Yes, we’re sure.” Pepper replies, immediately.

And then, they turn to Tony.

It’s _exhausting._ It’s always, always exhausting.

Tony nods, and his neck feels like a rusty hinge, aching and rigid. “The armor’s safe. She’ll be fine.”

“Does the armor fit her?” Rhodey suddenly asks. “What armor we’re talking about here, exactly?”

“She has one of her own, I just said that.” Tony reminds him.

“Well, I’ve never _seen_ it, so I’m asking what kind of armor it is.” Rhodey insists, considering Tony with a reproachful glare, like the exasperated, demanding older brother he is. “Where is it?”

Suddenly, without prompting, the sound of a rapidly approaching repulsor blast makes them all turn to the door, and in no more than a second, the 1-R armor comes flying quickly towards them, making almost all of them jump back in alert, surprised.

Tony doesn’t. And, surprisingly, _Pepper_ doesn’t. She stands there, watchful, as the large, shiny armor lowers itself to the floor and _opens up_ to her, like a flower, a strange mixture of smooth movement and hard metal, coming closer to wrap itself around her like a cocoon, and Pepper lets it, raising her arms with no question and stepping back into the foothold the support plates give her – and right there, before their eyes, Pepper _embraces_ the armor, just as the armor embraces her back, and Tony’s eyes suddenly feel too wet, too hot, too blurry for comfort.

It’s the first time he’s ever seen her like that. Stepping _into_ the armor, at her own will. The closest thing to this he’s ever had was when she shoved her hand into the gauntlet of his broken suit to fire at Aldrich Killian, to save his life, and to this day, is one of Tony’s most powerful memories, one he guards fondly, although he’ll never admit it, because it makes him feel… _something_ when he sees her in the suits he built.

Yes, seeing her in the armor when the Malibu house was destroyed was kind of hot, but that’s not what he means.

He means… He means that after everything, after seeing Pepper make such long arguments against his obsession with his armor – and for a good reason, Tony will admit, even if just to himself –, to see her _embrace it_ , it softens the blow. It makes him feel less like he’s completely disappointing her every time he chooses the fight over her, which is a constant worry, a constant voice at the back of his head, the paranoia that never leaves, the _anxiety_. And it makes him feel more like… Maybe she does understand, on some level. Maybe it’s not a matter of her rejecting Iron Man. It’s the thing that kept Tony looking for that middle-ground between them for years, relentlessly, because a world where he could keep both Iron Man and Pepper Potts it’s a world Tony can’t simply pass by without trying to reach.

To see this, to see her enter the armor he built for her by her own means, feels _powerful._

Feels like the beginning of something he doesn’t yet understand, and he’s afraid and curious and awed by what it could be.

The armor finishes closing itself around Pepper’s frame, and as the joints lock up and the faceplate slams down, the eyes light up in a bright flare, just like Tony’s, and the parallels of it make him feel weak in the knees, and his palms sweaty and hot.

“We’re becoming a full iron family now, aren’t we?” Rhodey jokingly says, but he sounds a little winded, which honestly makes it even funnier in Tony’s ears, and he lets out a barked laugh under his breath.

It’s _beautiful._

It doesn’t have gold, because Pepper always preferred silver. It looks like Tony’s old armors, before he made his current one of nanotech, a model closer to the armor Pepper used when the Mandarin attacked, because it was an armor she would recognize better. Also, Tony would never create for her a suit that functions like his, one that demands implants and it might feel too invasive, when, in an ideal world, she would have never even used it. Because she’s thinner, the armor looks slimmer, and she has less bulk than his own, not focusing on the heavy-hitting force, but speed. The shape of the shoulders and the lines of the torso, flank, and legs is more dynamic that his’ or Rhodey’s large, wide top-half of the suits.

But it’s just as powerful. It feels _imposing,_ and _untouchable._

The glow on the chest plate, though, is what Tony can’t stop staring at.

A miniature Arc Reactor, to power the suit. Just like his’. Just like his heart.

It’s important and it’s eye-opening, _breathtaking_ , and Tony almost has to avert his gaze, because if he stares at it too long, he’s going to lose it.

And he makes the mistake of looking at Rogers, unconsciously, and, as if sensing his gaze, Rogers’ eyes flick back and find his, and they stare at each other, in silence—

Intense.

It’s not judgment. It’s not… a threat. Tony finds himself lost in the habit of looking for Rogers’ reaction at a pivotal moment, to search for his face and measure his expression, his _eyes_ , when they are at an impasse. This, right here, is an important moment; It’s the moment where they’re standing on unsteady ground, with a choice, and they both are leaning towards different sides. It’s the story of their lives, honestly. Karma. They’re both pondering the option of allowing or stopping Pepper from joining them, weighing benefits and risks, and they’re both _unsure_ , but they have to choose.

But Tony chose.

Tony chose _yes._

But if Rogers says _no,_ this can all go downhill very, very fast.

So Tony _stares_. Even if it makes a shiver run down his spine at the strength of Rogers’ blue eyes, even if it makes a bead of sweat run down his back unpleasantly, he stares _back_ , and he hopes Rogers can see his resolve, his _request_ , and just for _once_ , agree without a fight.

And then—

And then, he _nods._

Tony’s eyes go wide, and he exhales harshly in a shudder, and startles a bit when Pepper suddenly moves on the other side, her faceplate sliding up again, to show her mildly surprised face inside. “So?” she says, pretending this isn’t just as overwhelming to her as it is to everyone else. “Any more complaints?”

They all trade looks, and then, they all look at Rogers, but Rogers is looking at Tony.

Until he looks at Pepper and says:

“No complaints.”, and just like that, “You’re in, Pepper.”

Just like that, something in Tony’s world _shifts._

 

They have to fly slow. The Quinjet is barely picking up any satellite signals and the dust clouds are too dense, and they can’t risk a fast trip, no matter if the chances of them encountering another aircraft on the way are slim to none. It gets really hard to see. The Compound is far away from the center of the city, remote, for both protection and comfort; But now, even the false sense of peace that the isolated location usually brought is broken, the empty, vacant spaces between the trees is glaringly obvious, it shatters the illusion, it brings the cold, harsh reality in.

Colder, by the day.

As they board the Quinjet, Tony slips back on his glasses, sighing in a small sensation of relief when FRIDAY’s voice echoes in his ear, proper, determined and familiar, and he resists the urge to rub at his chest, especially when Nebula is watching him like a hawk all the way to the boarding site.

“The Benatar has more room.” She had complained, and then the raccoon agreed.

“I don’t want to be an a-hole for nothing, but she’s got a point.” Rocket, Tony’s having a little difficulty getting used to that, says. “Your ship is a little… outdated.”

But it’s hard enough that they’ll have to fly over a city that had just gotten attacked by _alien spaceships_ , nevermind flying one the civilians, if there are any on the way, won’t recognize, and stir up panic.

Which means they have to cram inside the Quinjet as best as they can, like the world biggest, most tense, most awkward get along-shirt ever, as soon as they’re able, and they’ll have to figure out later how they’re going to manage the trip back, considering how many civilians they encounter.

The most effective way to cover ground faster is to establish a perimeter and expand it from there. Sweep the city from the center out, as Rogers describes, but it’s hard to pinpoint a ground zero when the entire city is just one large red warning on their radar, and priorities become a blur. In the end, it’s Pepper that suggests they should go back to the hospital she’d been on for the past couple of days, because they _knew_ there would be survivors there, including children, and they should continue on from there.

So, that’s what they do.

They fly towards the hospital.

 

They never make it there.

 

When they board, Tony sits by the back.

It’s purposefully away from the front and the big, wide glass panels that display the city below, so he won’t have to look, won’t have himself flooded with despair and helplessness, not before he can’t help it anymore, because he has no time to waste by _watching chaos unfold_ beneath his feet. It would be pure, senseless punishment, and even if Tony sometimes seems too eager to hurt, too eager to remember things that cut him open from the inside, like thorns ripping their way out of his chest where it used to bloom bright blue, this is a line Tony is not yet ready to cross.

Multitasking. He’s good at that.

He has a planet to save. It’ll be better for him, if he remembers that.

So, he sits at the back, beside Nebula and Pepper, both of them already geared up for action, Nebula with her electric batons and Pepper in her armor – her armor, dear God, Tony almost gets whiplash every time he thinks about it, the sheer absurdity of it  –, and he lets the sound of the turbines drown out his voice as he asks for FRIDAY to pull up some research papers about environmental imbalance, studies on the effects of extinction of species in food chains, ozone depletion, solar radiation management, global dimming, the goddamned winter that caused the extinction of the dinosaurs – Anything he can think of that involves similar key elements, hoping he can somehow form a puzzle that fits, a projection that will allow him to measure the effects of the attack, the _snap of Thanos’ fingers_ , more accurately, to know exactly where he has to act to stop it.

He'd promised Bruce he’d do it. So, he has to multitask.

The flashing images before his eyes, much like the lights of the HUD, are familiar and hypnotic, and he reads paragraphs and theories and debates of all sorts of areas and specialists, from ecologists to astrophysicists, and interprets graphs and readings as fast as he can, until his head aches, until he has no less than four theoretical outcomes, one bleaker than the other, a thousand of concerns, and not single one simple solution.

He’s still worrying about it, resisting the urge to rub his eyes until he can see sparks beneath his eyelids, _desperately_ wishing he wasn’t still so damned exhausted after an entire ten hours of sleep, when it starts to happen.

The Quinjet starts to go dark.

The lights are still on, the glowing panels working just fine, no alarm, no indication that there’s anything wrong with it.

The Quinjet is not the problem.

Tony’s left leg is bouncing anxiously with restless energy, his eyes almost dry from looking to fast from one graph to another, one paper to another, one _bad news_ to _another_ , from the far too close projection of his glasses; When he feels, just next to the periphery of his eyes, the light coming all the way from the front of the jet dim a little. The cold, soft blue morphs into bland gray, slowly, but surely, and once it starts, it doesn’t _stop._

The world goes gray, and then grayer, and grayer, and grayer.

And then it starts to go _black—_

_Black,_

**_Black._ **

He looks up, on edge. He turns off the projections on the glasses—

“Oh my God.” Bruce exhales, at the same time Natasha and Rhodey cuss, sharply and anguished.

“We have to turn around.” Rogers hastily alerts. “Or land. We can’t go through it.”

“What is it?” Tony gets up, suddenly despairing, but hesitating to go forward. He sees Nebula pull out a baton, but Rocket and Pepper stop her, extending their arms in front of her to keep her still.

“Smoke cloud.” Natasha says through gritted teeth. “We can’t go through. It’s too big.”

“What’s causing it?”

“Something on the ground. Seems like a large explosion. I’m still picking up big heat signatures on the radar.” She says, as she clicks buttons and turns switches on and off in lightning speed, her brows creased painfully. “It’s too dangerous to go closer.”

“The hospital isn’t far away.” Rhodey barks, angry, although Tony isn’t sure if he’s angry at Natasha, at himself, or at the smoke. “We can’t stop in the middle of the way.”

“How far?” Pepper asks—

But she never gets an answer, because, suddenly, they all stop.

Right there—

Under the smoke. They can see it, when the Quinjet starts to turn, and the wind blows strong enough to clear the sight, to see it beneath the rubble.

_Holy shit._

“It’s a plane.” Bruce whispers.

It’s hard to see, so hard, because the air is so gray it’s almost black. Dust and dirt fly through the air in visible particles, soot and smoke, a cloud of darkness that floods the senses, a _smell_ so strong it seeps in through the jet, past the insolation, strong and disgusting, and it festers it all with the scent of burning rubber and sulfur, of fire, of doom.

But it is a plane. Tony can see the wing, slicing through a building, crooked and gigantic, right there.

It’s a Boeing of some sort, Tony can’t even tell which one, because most of it it’s _completely gone_. The metal is charred black, distorted and ugly, and there’s a _hole_ on the top, exposing the black interior, where the smoke seems to start from. It’s jammed across the avenue, it _leveled a building_ , that’s completely destroyed, concrete and stone piled like corpses on top of the entire right side, burying it beneath an enormous mountain of rubble. The heat signature panels warn them, in flashing messages, that there are still some small fires in the middle of it. Tony can’t even see where.

He can’t see people.

He sees no survivors.

“Land.” He says, in a haste, tapping Natasha on the shoulder frantically. “We have to look closer.”

“Down there, are you kidding?” The raccoon exclaims.

“There might be people down there!” Tony reminds them. “We have to help them!”

But no one is arguing. Natasha and Rogers are both adjusting the controls and grabbing the controls, pushing them slowly towards the ground, looking for a place to land that is not completely unstable. They can’t land on any of the roofs, because it seems like there has been an explosion, and the buildings surrounding the plane are all covered in black, sprays of ash and soot across their windows and fronts, a testament to just how strong the explosion caused by the plane must’ve been. One of the nearby buildings has almost an entire chunk of the front missing, probably from something that flew into it from the plane.  

They have to put the Quinjet on the ground, because there’s nowhere else that’s safe enough. It’s terribly difficult, to find a free space large enough for the size of the jet, between the abandoned cars, the pieces of concrete that seem to have been catapulted from the explosion into the streets and buildings nearby,

The turbines make the ashes and the dust swirl madly, like a storm, the world getting restless and angry around them, stirring up and awaking for revenge, for retaliation—

To reprimand, for failing to fulfill their promises.

They are all suited up, already. Some of them didn’t have anything else to wear. Rhodey and Pepper decided to suit up early, Tony has offered Bruce one of his Kevlar suits prototypes he had in his workshop, Nebula and Rocket have no armor besides what they have on their back. They say they don’t need it. Tony is the only one not in his armor yet, and while the others start to move frantically, gathering weapons, he turns to look at Nebula, his hand hovering on the nanite casing in his sternum, a hesitant question in his eyes.

“It’s working.” Nebula assures him, as she holds to her batons with clenched fists. “Put your helmet on.”

So Tony trusts her, and taps his chest twice, his fingers pushing the case into his chest, and he feels a little jolt of electricity as the markers beneath his skin activate in a cascade of transmissions, like his neurons, and from his chest, the nanites cover his body in a wave, following the lines of his frame, and – Tony isn’t _sure,_ because he doesn’t _look_ , but he’s pretty sure the raccoon _whistles_ , and Tony decides he’s gonna ignore that and never think about it again.

As soon as the doors open, the dryness of the air scratches Tony’s lungs like nails on a chalkboard, dust and dirt specks coating the floor and floating in the air, visible, tangible, _terrifying_ , and he commands the armor to give him his helmet as quickly as he can, even though the scent is already in his brain _._ A haze of smoke swirls above their heads, moving along the air of the turbines like a whip, and even with the protection of the armor and the aid of his scans, he can’t see more than a few feet beyond the opening of the ramp.

“Stay close together, all on comms.” Rogers orders, and it’s nearly Pavlovian to obey, to defer to his forwardness, to his single-minded leadership. “We need to figure out what happened here.”

Tony doesn’t even think about what he’s doing until he _does_ it, and he finds himself _following_ Rogers out of the Quinjet closely, nearly side by side, as he runs forward and Tony immediately shoots up and tries to gain altitude, to analyze the situation from above, to give him visuals and decide the first course of action.

Tony hadn’t realized how often he did that, before.

He hadn’t realized how different it became, when he had to stop.

“Iron Man, what do you see?” Roger’s voice comes up by his comm line, just as Pepper and Rhodey are gearing up and joining him up the sky, looking around carefully. Truth is, they can only see a blur of the plane from where they are, it’s a little too far away and too deep into the smoke, which means all he can see is the silhouette, the _enormous_ , misshapen mass of it, jammed across the street before it disappears beneath a mountain of concrete blocks on their left.

“No civilians.” Tony says, which is true. Stats first. “No fire, no electrical discharge, but be careful anyway. It sees like the impact isn’t new. It probably… It probably fell when it happened, and no rescue team came ever since.”

“What about the buildings?” Bruce asks, from where he’s standing near the jet, from the point with most visibility from the ground, away from the smoke. “There might be people trapped in them!”

“Pep, check the right side for me.” Tony asks, pointing to the side, the one with the least impact of the plane. “Scan the floors, see if you find any civilians.”

“Okay.” Pepper agrees, if a little shakily, but flies towards the opposite side with remarkable ease, heading towards the still-standing buildings with careful attention.

Tony is a little anxious to watch her go, but he can’t think too much about it. So, he turns, and he says:

“Rhodey, you’re with me.” He signals. “We’re going in.”

“In?” Pepper asks, a little worried, through the comms.

“Check for survivors inside.” Tony explains. “Romanov, Nebula, got any ground info I should be aware of before going in?”

“We’ll check underneath.” Natasha’s voice answers efficiently, although Nebula doesn’t say a word. Tony can’t see them to check if everything’s alright.

“Thor, be on stand-by.” Rogers says. “Be ready to keep the plane steady in case we need it.”

“What about me?” Rocket asks.

“Depends, what can you do?” Tony replies.

“Rocket, we need you inside the building.” Rogers answers, right after. “Where the wing went through. Get in there if you can, check the damage. Report on what you see.”

“You got it.”

The stress is so high Tony would twitch in place if he wasn’t flying, stabilized by his armor. He gets jitters when he’s this nervous. He wants to go in, because he’s far away enough that he can’t see the actual damage, but he’s waiting on some visuals from Natasha and Nebula to make sure they won’t cause any sort of damage while doing in, like accidentally causing it to slide and jam deeper into the building over, also toppling it. Tony flies closer to the rubble he _can_ see, the remains of what once was probably a seven or eight store building that is now completely reduced to its bare bones, crumbled like a house of cards, and he realizes, with a pit of pure despair opening in his guts, that if they search below it, they will probably find bodies.

“I don’t see civilians.” Pepper informs them through comms, out of breath, as she scans the second or the third building frantically. “I think they escaped.”

“Check the building closer to the explosion.” Natasha suggests through gritted teeth, and the tightness in her voice betrays her. “Tony, Rhodey, you’re in. Looks sturdy enough.”

And it sounds like a go, it _sounds_ like everything is going fine, until, in her next breath, she says—

“We have casualties.”

And the world seems to go dead silent.

No one says nothing on the comms.

Tony can hear his own breath so loud it sounds _deafening._

“Three women, two men.” A pause. They all wait. “Two children.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut.

_Christ._

**_Fuck._ **

“Be careful.” Natasha says, softly. “There might be more inside.”

“Going in.” Tony harshly says, uncaring if he sounds furious, because he _is_ , uncaring if he sounds like he’s losing it, because he _is._ “Someone start looking into the rubble of the building. We have to clear that up next.”

“Tony.” Rogers says, as an alert, trying to stop him – and Tony _ignores_ it, diving down fast and determined, Rhodey following close behind, as they go deeper into the black cloud of smoke, like the world is closing in on them, and they zero into the hole on top of the plane, where a trail of fumes still blows from, focused on nothing else.

“Oh God.” He hears Pepper’s voice, and the distant sound of repulsor boots activating and firing up, as she probably flies to join them.

Tony promised her he wouldn’t be reckless.

(It’s a promise he keeps breaking.)

(Over and over again.)

It’s near impossible to look inside the plane, even with the aid of the helmets. It’s all black, as far as they can see.

Tony starts closing in slowly, feet first, lowering himself with a cautioned trajectory so he can look around while he moves.

Up close, the plane looks so large it’s frightening.

He can see the whole extent of the wing, jutting out from the body, where the white paint creates a sharp, terrible contrast to the black soot that covers the cabin. It went through half of the third floor, taking down walls and windows, destroying the interior, and who knows what else it was inside. _Who_ else. Tony can’t see anything but chaos and electric cables loose from the ceilings. Probably the only thing keeping this building up is the wing itself, and if it moves, they might have another problem on their hands.

“Stay clear from the wing.” Tony warns them. “The building is unstable. It might collapse.”

The other side is buried beneath the rubble. The smell of concrete and dust is as strong as the smoke, overbearing, and the plane is tilting in that direction a little, held down by the weight of the stones. When Tony looks closer, the space suddenly vacant because of the plane impact looks too _wide_ , and he realizes _two_ buildings must’ve gone down when it hit, not just one.

Which is _worse_.

It’s bad. It’s bad, bad, oh God, this is _bad._

Tony hovers above the hole on top of the plane, for the briefest of seconds, and goes down painfully slow, aware of any wiring or stray piece of foam or any other flammable object he might touch, watching, terribly hypnotized, as the dark interior or the cabin starts to creep closer, and closer, until he’s surrounded by it.

And suddenly, he realizes.

There won’t be any survivors.

“Tony?” Rhodey asks, and it sounds like he’s coming from miles and miles away. “What do you see?”

He sees _nothing_.

Tony can only identify that he is, in fact, in a plane cabin, because he knows what a plane cabin looks like. He recognizes the organization of the rows, the pairs of chairs next to the windows and down the center _,_ he recognizes the _idea_ of what it should be, and not truly what he sees.

Because what he sees is _black._

Civilian casualties aren’t what they deal with, personally.

And there is a reason for that.

When Tony is standing there, in the middle of this charred scraps, black dust beneath his boots and the smell of burnt metal on his nose, with his helmet pulled back so he can feel the nearly unbearable heat of the cabin, a sharp contrast to the biting cold of the world outside this explosion site, so he feels the dirt sticking to his face, the disgusting feeling of his hands sweating cold beneath his gauntlets – he looks at the floor of the plane, to the burnt bodies of those who didn’t manage to get out on time, Tony remembers why.

Tony remembers why they are called dangerous.

Tony remembers why the mess that pushed them apart when Thanos arrived even existed in the first place.

It’s because people get hurt, in the wake of the things they do, or fail to do. People get hurt, people get _killed_ , no matter how hard they try, and to dealt with this on top of dealing with leading the fight against forces they sometimes don’t understand is more than their minds can handle.

It’s hard to look at bodies trapped beneath rubble, burnt, or forgotten on the street. It’s hard to look at them and see what has been lost, the opportunity, the possibility, entire lifetimes taken away in seconds, and knowing they arrived too late. It breaks the heart. It _crushes_ the mind. Tony stares at them and realizes these people at his feet were the supposed _lucky ones_ , the ones who didn’t disappear in the grand decimation, but they still suffered the consequences of it anyway, and in the end—

They all got the same fate. They all ended up being taken.

And it makes Tony _scared_ , it makes him scared, because he can see—

He can see it in his mind’s eye, how it was. How this happened. This plane came crashing down, on the middle of the day, when no one was expecting it, and it crashed on the street. The people working on the buildings to the left were probably busy, having lunch, handing in reports, just trying to make an honest living. Or maybe – maybe this was a residential area. Tony doesn’t know. He can’t see enough of the street to know. The air is filled with gray. They might’ve been residential buildings, those people might’ve been families, safe inside their homes, until something from above came and _crashed down_ on them until there was nothing left. The building across the street, the one that’s still miraculously standing up – how did they run? Did they get any help on time? How many of them in there vanished, before the wing sliced through the walls? There might still be people in there. Under that wing. There might be even more bodies to count.

He can see the way this will end.

It’s his curse, it’s his instinct, he just _knows_. Tony looks at these bodies and he sees the first fire of many, the first explosion in God knows how many more across the country, across the world, from crashes and accidents no one ever came to rescue because the rescue died, or fled, scared for their own safety and their own families. Maybe eventually they’ll feel confident enough that they won’t suddenly disappear too, maybe, as the days or maybe months go by, while they wait, terrified, for a second wave of the attack to come only to realize it won’t; Maybe _then_ , they’ll be able to bring these casualties to a minimum, but what will they do until then?

Government is destroyed. Society is destroyed. If someone, somewhere, with enough influence over the less secure people, decided to seize the opportunity to put themselves above others, they could cause enormous damage before they even hear about it. Almost all communication is down. This is –

This is one plane of many. Thousands of them. Maybe even millions. Who knows exactly?

Accidents. Fire. Death. How many more?

Oh, _God,_ this is _nuclear apocalypse_ , the thing Tony heard over and over again when he was a child, when scientists like Sagan and Toon talked about men like his father like they were men who would help the US and the USSR to destroy the world. Tony had been the _son_ of a man who built weapons, for fuck's sake, he _had been_ the man who builds weapons. He had seen all the warnings, PSAs, and manifestos. He knows the projections – ash covered sky, barren land, no rules. No communication. Moving into bunkers, famine, lack of resources, raids—

He knows this future. He used to have nightmares about it.

He used to see the weapons his father helped create up close.

He knows how this _goes._

Tony looks up, eyes stinging with unshed tears, breath heaving and heart beating fast, and he feels like the world is crushing him, swallowing him whole, like the vast universe had been, in silence, predatory, with no mercy. The sunlight stretches thin, going out like a flickering candle behind a curtain, obscured by the heavy clouds that slither closer and closer with promises of rain, with the smell of sulfur and ozone, cold wind whistling loud in his ears.

And he sees _Titan—_

He sees _Titan_ , he sees chaos, he sees _destruction._

He sees the _end._

The dark surrounds them, merciless, ruthless – and the world grows cold.

“It won’t be enough.” Tony whispers, dejectedly, the catastrophe flashing in front of his eyes, the all-consuming fear latching onto his mind like a parasite, the paranoia, now, made true. “Trying to curb this won’t be enough.”

He knows it to be true.

He _knows._

He _always knows._

“We have to find a way to reverse this. To bring them _back._ ” Tony says, breathlessly, and suddenly a hand immediately shoots out to grab his arm, firm and strong, demanding, scaring him, and Tony looks around to find Pepper, armor-clad,  desperation obvious in her posture, and even worse in her voice, when she calls:

“Tony?”

“We have to bring them back.” Tony repeats, because there’s nothing else he can _say._

Through the faceplate, Tony can’t see her expression.

He doesn’t need to. He knows.

He knows fear when he sees it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hurts. It hurts a lot. The next one, unfortunately, will do too, but for a different reason.
> 
> I'm pushing Tony into a very specific situation. A very particular dilemma. One that's not new, but this time, it's going to change everything. Don't let Tony fool you. Don't let this on and off, together or not, this mess of a relationship fool you. Whether you like Pepper or not, whether you _ship_ it, or not - we are reaching a point where it can no longer be denied that there's an unsolved problem between them, a problem never spoken about, but a problem that no longer can be overlooked.
> 
> What problem is that? Priorities.
> 
> And you will soon see exactly what I mean.
> 
> Next time we see each other, I will already have seen Endgame. Hopefully you too! I'm watching it on the 24th, which means that by the 25th, I'll be fully available to discuss the movie with anyone who wishes to, if anyone does, on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/machi_writes) DMs or my [tumblr](https://machi-kun.tumblr.com) chat or asks. I'll be tagging anything related to the movie as "endgame spoilers", to make sure it doesn't bother anyone who doesn't want to see anything until they've seen the movie.
> 
> I hope it's a good one, guys. I'm very excited about it.
> 
> MCU, thank you for the last 10 wonderful years. Despite all the shit I give you, you have been, for sure, a joy in my life. I hope everyone has a good time watching this movie, and let's all enjoy it as much as we can.
> 
> Until next time. See you all on the other side ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Endgame, huh? WHAT'S UP WITH THAT?
> 
> Just kidding, no spoilers for now. If we do get to talk about it, it'll be a little further down the line, when it becomes completely unavoidable - because, you know, plot. For now, we'll keep it spoiler free; But if you do want to talk about it, my twitter and my tumblr are always open to you guys. There's actually a gigantic post there about my opinions on the movie, so if you're curious about that, [check it out](https://machi-kun.tumblr.com/post/184627708170/endgameanalysis)!
> 
> Now, as we're in that part where everyone is just wondering where do we go from here in this fandom, I just want to remind you that the path of this story remains unchanged. Nothing that happened in Endgame affects this fic. Here, we work with IW and no further, and the only information I'll ever use or mention about Endgame will be solely to flesh out the rules of my own plot, to know the limits I can push, or make some nice comparisons for you guys. Nothing that will change the ultimate fate of this narrative. The universe that exists in here works in different rules, different priorities, and also, different results. 
> 
> I have an opportunity to use something Marvel didn't, and I'm not gonna waste it.
> 
> But enough about that. Let's talk Pepper Potts.
> 
> You might think, from the way I talk about her relationship with Tony as being one with unspoken issues, or from the way this is a SteveTony fic, despite the setting I proposed so far being totally capable of allowing Pepperony to grow closer instead of further apart, that I dislike Pepper. I don't, actually. Pepper is a great character, she has clear morals and objectives, and I respect her. I might not ship it madly, but that doesn't mean I don't understand it, or can't imagine why people do; After all, canonically, Tony does love her, and wobbly as it is, it is the first romantic pairing of the MCU.
> 
> But that doesn't mean I think she fits where the MCU has placed her. I have no problem with Pepper - My problem is that I believe that her morals, at this point in the timeline, simply don't fit her role.
> 
> If you think Pepper's reservations are about Iron Man, you're only seeing half the picture. There's a pattern to her behavior, and that pattern is directly related to what Tony does or doesn't do. If you think Iron Man is the problem, you're watching Pepper react to Tony's actions without thinking about Tony's actions. About what they mean. You can't understand why Pepper does what she does with their relationship without looking at Tony too. His morals, his actions, his choices.
> 
> The problem is not Iron Man. The problem is that, at the very core, Tony and Pepper are driven by the same force - but they fly in different paths.
> 
> Sometimes, friends, love is not enough to guide you back.

They go back empty-handed.

In a way. They never reach the hospital, because the night falls upon them too soon, the clouds uncaring of their struggle, drowning the world in black before they are even halfway through the job. Not even a third into the job, even. The plane had been unsalvageable, all possible clues to indicate the identity of its passengers burnt to the ground in dark soot, and Tony had been trying too hard not to think about what exactly he was seeing or he was touching when he reached out and let his fingers graze across the wall of distorted metal, staining the gold and red of his suit with ash, to process it correctly.

The plane also is unable to be moved because of the building it was still holding up. So, they moved to the building next.

When they started finding the bodies… It all became a little too much.

The trip to the hospital is a lost cause then. They take the only thing they have, heavy hearts and a body count, and retreat back to the Compound to regroup, reorganize, to…

To mourn. Because… what else can they do?

They are as silent as a cemetery, the sound of the turbines roaring in their ears, a constant stream of noise to accompany the loud pulsing of the blood in their veins, the feeling of palms sweaty and dirty with ash, beneath fingernails, sticking to the skin like a branding of sin. Tony had been using a helmet the entire time, but he feels like his lungs are scratching terribly every time he inhales. His mouth is dry. He has never felt so uncomfortable in his own skin, itching beneath the surface, a mixture of hot and cold of the most unpleasant kind and—

He sits there in silence and he stares at _nothing_ , lost, and all he knows is one thing:

It can’t go one like this.

(It _can’t._ )

Not just because – not because he will not sit by and watch it happen. He won’t. He would _never_. Tony may not see any way out of this yet, but he will _find one_ , goddammit, he will not rest until he can see it, he can make it, until it _works._

But he knows. He knows, he knows, he _knows—_

“We need to find a way to reverse it.”

His voice echoes inside the cold walls of the Quinjet. Bounces back to his own ears.

It sounds harsh.

It sounds… final.

He doesn’t look up, but he can feel the others moving. He can feel their stares. The sensation is similar to a thousand needles poking his skin, sharp and shallow, _stinging_ –the hairs on his forearms standing up with a nearly animal instinct of unease, and he _hates_ it. He feels awful, nauseated, and defensive.

He feels incredibly alone.

Rocket is the only one who reacts enough to ask:

“Reverse it?”

“This. This – _decimation._ ” Tony says, firmly. “We need to find a way to bring back everything Thanos took.”

A pause.

“You’re crazy.” Rocket says, simply, and sits back again and pretends to ignore him.

The others still haven’t said a word.

Their silence _speaks._ Their silence has weight and depth, like an entire conversation, suffocated by discomfort, waves of mixed feelings floating through the air. They stare and _stare,_ eyes sharp and filled with hesitation, holding their breaths like they’re waiting for something very bad to happen. Like they’re waiting for him to react very, very suddenly, and very badly. Rogers and Romanov, at the front, can’t turn back to face him – and yet, lingering at the periphery of his vision, there’s a tension to their shoulders, an unnatural stiffness to their posture, a cautiously attentive ear.

Tony doesn’t know if they’re afraid of what he’ll say, or of what he’ll do.

He doesn’t know if _they_ know the difference either.

“That’s not possible, Tony.” Bruce says gently, eyebrows scrunched up in painful sympathy, and Tony wonders if this is Bruce’s anxiety speaking, or if this is – this is the conclusion of the past three nights awake, of dark undereye bags and trembling hands, of searching and searching and coming up with _nothing_ to prove. “Thanos took down more than half of the population. People _died_. We can’t just erase this.”

“Why not?” Tony forcibly asks. “Who is going to stop us?”

Tony closes his hand into a fist so tightly it hurts, even with the hard edge of the armor preventing him from digging his nails through his palm, just the pressure of his fingers squeezing so strongly it almost makes him cramp, tendons stretching painfully all the way to his arm, skin pulled tight at his knuckles, aching for impact. It feels like rage. But _more._ It’s rage and grief and disbelief, it’s a _feral rejection_ , a denial, and Tony embraces it and allows it to consume him whole, even as it brings a lump to his throat, as his breath cuts sharp when he breathes in and his eyes burn with strain.

It won’t go on like this.

Tony is _pissed off._ Tony is –

Tony has never been so enraged in his _life_. Not even to Stane or what happened in Gulmira, not to Loki or Ultron, not to Killian, not even to _Rogers._ This is _hellish_ anger, this is vengeful.

He will – _God, fuck,_ he will _not cry_ , dammit –, he _will_ fix this. He _will_.

He will not sit by and watch it happen.

He knows it’s possible to _survive_ this. But he doesn’t want survival.

 _Not possible_. Not possible, _his ass._

It has to be. It has to be possible. More _impossible_ things have happened. An _alien_ with a _magical gauntlet_ happened, and it destroyed the universe with a snap of his fingers. Billions, _trillions_ on Earth alone, who knows how many others out there? It should have been impossible. This – this kind of tragedy shouldn’t even be able to exist. In comparison, a way out, a way to fix this—

It has to be—

It has to be possible.

(It _has to be._ )

The son of a bitch took so much. He took it all.

They’re gonna have to take it back.

It’s the only way.

No one vouches for him. No one agrees, nor gives any indication they are considering the idea to be doable. They are thinking about it, alright. He feels it in the air, the charge, the _smell_. But they are thinking about it already _defeated_ , shoulders slumped and eyes averted, mouths twisted in displeased lines and frown etched deep, _miserable_ and broken. They think, and think, and think, and Tony waits with his fists clenched tight, resisting the urge to chew on his lip so hard he’ll draw blood, and if it makes him angrier, it makes him burn hotter, if it makes him more and more _certain_ that he is _right—_

He’ll do it alone if he has to.

(He doesn’t want to.)

(He’s tired of doing this alone.)

He’ll _do it._ With, or without them. He’d… he’d rather have help, he’d… _fuck_ , it really hurts, the idea that on even after the apocalypse they would trust him with this, even if Tony knows he sounds a little like a maniac – but he thinks he’s in his _right_ , okay? This is not – Who exactly is thinking straight right now? No one. No one is alright, but they have to do something, because if they don’t, soon enough they’ll be wiped from Earth just like everyone else was. He knows his idea is outrageous, and he knows it’s dangerous, but isn’t that what they do? Isn’t that the purpose of being a superhero, to do the outrageous to keep others safe?

How many will die while they scramble to find a long-term solution? How many plane crashes or accidents, fires and smoke, how many starving or freezing or alone or suffocated until they manage to _stabilize_ things before they can fix it?

It’s dangerous. It will… If they manage to pull it off, chances are some of them might not come back alive. Maybe even all of them.

Thanos has the stones. All six of them. He could easily obliterate them if he wanted to. He is still the most powerful being in the entire universe, and he has all the advantage because he has the bigger stick and he’s very hard to kill, to begin with. To be honest – it’s probably… it’s probably a suicide mission. Tony’s best tech couldn’t stop him. He had only four stones then, and all Tony had done was to draw one drop of blood.

But—

But that’s enough for _him._

It’s enough.

_Thanos bleeds._

That’s all Tony needs to know. That is all he cares about. If Tony couldn’t stop him before, all he has to do is to make sure the next time they meet, Tony will be strong enough to _kill_ him.

And he’ll do it alone if he must.

Silence.

The rest of the journey is silent, again. Somehow, it feels worse than before.

The Compound is dark inside, but the lights on the landing pad are light up, tiny bursts of color cutting through the oppressing black of the night, like stars guiding them through a dark night in the woods. The cold, this far away from the city, _bites._ Even inside the jet, Tony can feel a slight sting on his cheeks, around his nose, skin pulled tight, and he’s twitching in place nervously, adrenaline pumping strong in his veins, and he can’t wait to step out of this goddamned Quinjet and head to his lab, to tinker, to _plan._ His mind, always running, always moving too fast, that before was dragging itself forward at a snail’s pace thanks to the pit in his stomach and the dreadful feeling of hopelessness gurgling in his guts; now it flares intensely, roaring in impatience, restless energy bursting through his body, on the tap of his feet on the ground, on the twitch of his hands and legs.

He’ll make this better. He’ll improve, he’ll adapt. He will find a way to that that Gauntlet out of Thanos’ hand.

The Quinjet lands. No one moves.

They do not speak.

Tony is nearly standing up and storming out, _needing_ to step away, to stop himself from reacting in a way he won’t be able to take back or justify later, when, to his utter astonishment, _Rogers_ says:

“How would we do that?”

And something blooms in Tony’s chest, something strong and all-encompassing, that twists in a knot that entangles gratitude and vindication and frustration and spite all at once, an irrational cocktail that swirls and rotates like the Devil’s drink itself, promising too much, not promising enough, a bargain that has no winner or loser, no right and wrong—

Only a burning, scorching sense of—

(Fix it.)

(Fix it.)

( _Fix it._ )

“We need that gauntlet.” Tony says, with complete certainty.

 _That_ makes them move.

Thor slumps heavily on his seat, while both Bruce and Rocket flail confusedly, and Romanov whips her head towards Rogers so sharply is a marvel she doesn’t hurt herself. Nebula’s back goes as stiff as a board, her eyes hot as coal, _curious_ – but Rhodey and Pepper, they _jump_ in his direction, reaching out to his arms and hands, as if they could stop him from doing something when he’s just standing there, perfectly still. It’s his _words_ that frighten them. Rhodey is apprehensive, but Pepper—

Pepper’s eyes go wild with worry, and when she hisses, “ _Tony_.”, her voice catches on her throat, and it sounds like it hurts.

He’s going to hurt her again. He will.

(But what other choice does he have?)

“It’s the only way we can do this.” He says, brows furrowed, eyes apologetic; But his words stand firm.

“Tony.” Pepper repeats, more forcefully. “Do you hear yourself?”

“The Gauntlet was damaged.”

Tony turns to look at Thor, mind snapping in a whiplash, a little surprised by this revelation.

“When Thanos escaped.” Thor says, and his words bleed guilt and grief, heavy as his hammer, a weight too heavy for any of them to comprehend. “He snapped his fingers and wiped away half the universe – and it cost him the Gauntlet. I saw it, up close. It was burned and deformed.”

Tony struggles to process this information, when he realizes how much he’s actually lacking from the previous days. They really didn’t – they didn’t talk at all, did they? Tony has no idea what happened to them, and they have no idea what happened to him. Thor – Thor saw Thanos _up close._ Like he did. Did they all? Thor had been close enough to see the Gauntlet when the _snap_ came – what _happened?_

But it all halts when the word finally catches up to him and he realizes what Thor just _implied._

He thinks the Gauntlet is destroyed. That it’s useless.

“How do you know?” Tony insists. “Are you sure?”

“I _saw_ it, Stark.” Thor repeats, angrily. “It was destroyed.”

“Then how did he escape?”

Thor – they _all_ – pause.

“He used it.” Thor tells him, sounding stunned, confused. “He opened a portal. Using the Space Stone.”

“So it works.” Tony prods. “It’s broken, but it still _works._ ”

“Possibly.” Thor says, after a long moment of hesitation. “Yes. But not enough for a second snap of fingers.”

“You don’t know that!”

“You don’t know either.”

“This is insane.” Rocket complains.

“Are you _seriously_ considering this?” Pepper interferes, stepping forward, frantic. Tony, cruelly, ignores her.

“Do you have any other brilliant idea?” He snaps at Thor.

“Maybe accept the fact that we _can’t_ get it back?”

“I don’t believe you.” Tony accuses. “I don’t believe you would let it lie like this. I don’t accept it.”

“You think I _want_ this?” Thor stands up, tall and imposing, _threatening_ , and the hurt swimming behind the dual color of his eyes, stormy blue and simmering gold, is the only thing that keeps Tony steady in his stance, even as the others start to protest around them, trying to stop their argument with varying degrees of panic. “You think I’m fine with Thanos destroying this planet? The _universe_?”

“You’re not fine.” Tony says, and it sounds much more like an accusation than he intended to, but he can’t help it, not even if he can see how strongly the hurt hits behind Thor’s hard glare, even if he knows he shouldn’t pick up a fight with one of the only people Tony doesn’t have bad blood with from his original team, even if Thor doesn’t deserve this pain any more than any of them do.

But Tony is angry.

Tony is angry and once again, no one is _listening_ to him, and _Rogers_ of all people asked, _Rogers_ asked – and _Thor_ , the god of thunder, Thor, the one person Tony had thought would jump at the opportunity to take revenge on an enemy as strong as Thanos, is refusing to act?

“I think you’re _scared._ ” Tony says, and it hurts him as much as it hurts Thor, he can see it, he can feel it in his own heart. The words hit them both like a punch, Tony swaying in place just as Thor’s jaw locks down tight and hard, hand squeezing around the handle of his axe, and that reactions echo so deep into Tony’s body that he unconsciously softens his voice, looks down, and feels bad for it. Feels bad for saying it out loud when they all are so clearly trying not to say it, to ignore it, to force themselves through it.

He’ll say it anyway, though. He will. Somebody has to.

“We all are.” Tony admits, fragilely. “We lost. We tried to stop him and we _failed._ ”

“And your plan is to fight him again.” Thor says, in a dark tone. “Now, when he has all six Infinity Stones and is more powerful than ever? The most _powerful_ being in the entire universe?”

“All I care about is that we bring back everyone he took from us, and we can’t sit here and do _nothing_ while he kicks back and has a drink, thinking he’s _won_.” Tony hisses back. “He’s not invincible. He _bleeds_. Even with the strongest weapon in the world – no weapon can’t be destroyed.”

Tony knows that. He knows that better than anyone.

“Without that gauntlet, he’s just an alien-like any other.” Tony pushes into Thor’s personal space, feeling bigger, larger than life, the force of the flames inside his chest expanding in an explosion. “Our _job_ is to stop aliens from destroying our home. Our _mission_ is to _avenge_ the Earth. That’s why we’re here _for._ ”

Thor stares back at him, his eyes sparkling with emotions too fast for Tony to process them, even as his face stays so perfectly blank that it almost seems like he isn’t fully there. The others watch them tensely, the weight of Tony’s words falling upon them just like he has thrown them at Thor, the raw, unfiltered strength of his plea, the meaning of this belief that has roots so deep into his being Tony no longer has any chance of cutting them out _finally_ exposed to them.

Thor looks in pain. Whatever has happened in his absence, whatever Thor has gone through during the years he’d been away looking for the Stones – this man before Tony is not the same man that left the Compound years ago. It’s not the haircut, it’s not the weapon. It’s the _hurt_ , the low, mellow sadness in his eyes, the tense pull of his neck, the pout in his lips as he grinds his teeth and holds back words or tears or whatever it is he’s trying so hard to conceal. He has never looked so distressingly human before.

Tony had missed him during the mess with the Accords. Just like he had missed Bruce. Tony had missed them both, for so many reasons, but now, mostly because he had believed that of all of them, as a _god_ , as a _prince_ , Thor, more than anyone else, would know that it is his – _their_ – duty to protect those who can’t. To take back what is stolen. To not accept offense against the people he holds dear.

And Thor is _hesitating_. Thor is looking at Tony, and then at his axe, like something is eating him from the inside out, like there’s a question almost bursting out of his lips that he’s holding back just because he won’t stand to hear it out loud, and Tony doesn’t _know_ what happened to him, but he _needs_ someone to agree with him, he needs them to see, and if Thor was the one who got closer, if Thor was there when Thanos _snapped_ his fingers and saw him _win_ ; Thor has to _know_ how Tony felt when he saw the kid _vanish_. The moment of realization.

Tony knows how much stronger Thanos is. He’s well aware.

He needs them to be on board with this. They’ll have a better chance if they do this—

(Together.)

Tony doesn’t know what happened to Thor. He wishes he had time to ask. He wishes he wasn’t so angry, or so frantic, or so scared – but he is, and he can’t do anything about it. The harsh truth is that Tony _fucked up_ , they all did, they _fucked up_ and Thanos _won_ and it can’t end like _this._ He can’t be the only one who is so completely consumed by this need to reverse this, he can’t. They are all so insane, all of them, a group of ragtag maniacs full of traumas and violence, people who have made the mission of their lives to throw themselves at the line of fire, and now Tony is the only one who is thinking about this? He is the only one that can taste the insatiable hunger for revenge? No matter the odds?

_Fuck the odds._

Thanos—

Thanos took his _kid._

Tony will not rest.

Thor breathes, hard and deep, and Tony stands there waiting, seething – and the moment stretches so long it almost becomes painful, the force of Tony’s locked jaw hurting all the way into his teeth, until Thor’s face hardens into something so incredibly steadfast, pure strength, and he asks in a curt voice:

“Do you want to kill him?”

“I want to fix things.” Tony replies, firmly. “I’m not gonna let it end like this.”

“And Thanos?”

“Whatever happens to him after we take that gauntlet… I won’t lose sleep over it.”

Thor raises his gaze and meet Tony’s, and in there; in his eyes, there it is, the _anger_ that also thrums inside Tony, the bite, the rage, and as hurtful as it is, Tony is glad to see it’s _alive_ , that it survived, because they’ll need it.

“Good.” Thor says. “Then I’ll have his head.”

Thor’s _agreement_ – it rushes into Tony like a hit of a drug, loud in his ears and burning into his veins, just as impactful as Roger’s veiled concession, because if they are considering it, Tony might actually convince them of doing this. It’s not the best plan. It’s the worst of plans. Tony knows how easily this could backfire, and he knows that considering his track record, it’s not a novelty that they are doubting him. They don’t… Tony knows what they think of him. Of his risky ideas. But now they have no choice but to agree, because Tony isn’t spewing this out of his ass; the proof is right outside, in the sky, in the air, and it’s just his anxiety talking, this is the _truth_.

Even if ever before, nor ever again – _right now_ , Tony is _right._ And he will not compromise on this.

The others start talking again, almost hysterically, raising questions and concerns, but Tony can’t make a single word out of the cacophony of it all, the sound of blood rushing through his ears too loud and too overbearing. He sways back, honestly a little relieved – relieved, because he won’t be totally alone, _relieved_ , because they might _actually_ listen to him this time, they might actually understand what he’s trying to do –, and he once again makes the mistake of looking at Rogers, who is standing there, looking at him, perfectly still, with eyes intense and an earnest face; like he too _agrees_ , like for the first time in who knows how long, maybe even the first time ever, he fully trusts Tony.

Tony averts his gaze.

He doesn’t need Rogers’ approval, but – but his support will definitely help. It will.

Tony tries to remind himself of that.

“Tony, please, stop for a second and _listen_ to me.” Pepper begs, holding his arms, going around so she can stand in front of him so he can’t ignore her again. “What you’re suggesting, it’s too dangerous. Please… You’re not okay. You can’t be serious.”

And she looks at him; She looks at him from inside the armor he made her, enveloped by the suit he never thought she would wear, with the bright blue of the reactor glowing like a star mirroring his’, her eyes wide and desperate—

And Tony exhales far too harshly from his nostrils, eyes suddenly burning and a painful pressure building on his forehead and nose, a rush of emotion that threatens to spill unbidden down his cheeks, an old, bitter resentment and fear rearing its head from the depth of his chest, ready to strike. The anxiety that never fully abates, only sleeps, only waits; Until the next moment, the next beat.

(Same old song and dance.)

(Ending as it always does.)

“It’s our best chance.” He says, breathlessly.

“No.” Pepper exhales back. “It’s _suicide_ , Tony. It’s too risky.”

Tony does not answer.

(He already made up his mind.)

“You can’t do this.” Pepper says, all sorrow and anger, desperation and hopelessness, an inescapable storm. “Not now. Not now, Tony. Please, any time but now.”

“I have to.” Tony insists,

And when no one speaks, when no one can find in themselves the strength to argue – because she is _not wrong_ , they all know it, even if there are so many other things happening, she’s not wrong, _but Tony isn't either._

She looks at him with wide, exasperated eyes, nearly pleading for his agreement; As if this is madness, as if hesitation is madness, as if she can't understand why he's saying this, why he's even considering such an outlandish option.

And that’s the problem.

She doesn’t understand.

Pepper opens her mouth, ready to scream, her usually meticulous composure completely shattered by the wrecking of the past days, the poorly concealed, agonizing uncertainty, the fear of being alone, of losing anyone else, so raw it nearly reminds of a burn directly to the skin. Searing, stinging. Painful.

But she doesn’t. She stops, and her breath hitches, and whatever she remembers, it makes her eyes flash in a way they almost glaze over for a brief second, before her entire body closes up like a door being slammed shut, the rampage about to come pouring out of her halting suddenly before a wall. She shakes with the force it takes her to hold it back. Tony is so terribly aware that they are being _watched_ , that they all are witnessing this train wreck of a moment, and despite his resolve, shame coils hot in him, at the realization that they’re all seeing this.

Tony, disappointing Pepper once again.

(Always disappointing.)

Pepper reigns herself in with a long breath, dropping her hands from Tony’s arms and bringing them slowly to rest beside her, carefully neutral, but before Tony or anyone else can even attempt to find words that will lower the insufferable tension in this jet, Pepper asks, quietly and calmly, for Natasha to open the Quinjet door.

Natasha does, and no one stops her. Not even Tony.

Pepper slowly steps out, walking back towards the elevator and into the Compound, still in the armor.

She doesn’t look back, not even once.

“So.” Rocket drawls. “Is it always like this with you guys?”

Tony’s mouth twists in deep displeasure, and he says nothing.

Because yes. Yes. It’s always like that.

Tony despises himself for it.

 

Pepper was never the kind of person who paces.

She freezes. Like pausing a video mid-motion.

Tony finds her in their room, the door left open in her haste, but frozen still between the entrance and the bed. The armor is nowhere in sight. Even as her back is turned to him, her arms are crossed and her shoulders are tense, the tight coil she’s holding inside her clearly visible now she doesn’t have the firmness of metal around her to disguise her distress, and Tony sadly realizes she is _shaking_ , her frame almost unnoticeably trembling despite the stiff posture, as if she’s barely containing herself.

This is not fair to her.

Tony has never been fair to her, whenever a risky situation is concerned.

But—

But this is his choice.

He also removes his armor, too uncomfortable with the idea of facing her while using it, _uneven ground_ , and he closes the door behind him although he still feels like he’s being watched despite them both being alone. None of the others have followed him. No one had said a word. Tony is here exposing himself to Pepper, because he has to, because he’ll hurt her and he’ll let her hurt him back, he’ll accept the trading of blows without complaint because he knows he deserves it, and he will not try to stop it.

He knows how it goes.

“You can't keep doing this, Tony.” She tells him, in a sharp, firm tone. “You can't do this. Not again.”

“Pepper.” Tony says, and her name is an entire sentence, an entire speech far too familiar for it not to be recognizable, even in such a short breath, two syllables carrying the weight of an entire decade of a debate that never reached an end.

“There are other ways to fix this.” Pepper insists, and then, she finally turns to him, and to see her face is even worse than to stare at her back, because before she felt distant, and now, she feels so close, too close to his heart, to the gaping wound that simply refuses to heal, to that soft point in his carefully constructed façade that no one except her can reach. “You can't just jump into a spaceship and go to space looking for some… _alien_ … _titan_ , or whatever, and try to steal the thing that caused this in the first place. You don’t even know where he _is_!”

“We have to find him—"

“And what are you going to do if you do find him?” Pepper interrupts, angrily, so terribly distressed. “Fight him again? Risk your life in space for a thing you don't even know if exists anymore?”

He knows it sounds bad. He knows it’s risky. But—

“What other option do I have?” Tony argues, defensively.

“You have options!” Pepper exclaims. “You always do! You just never choose them!”

(That is always her fear.)

(Options.)

(The options Tony chooses, over and over again.)

“What options!?” Tony raises his shoulders in questioning, feeling defensive, like he always does, because he's had this argument with her so many times that he can already predict what she's going to say.

“Options that will actually _help_ the people out there!” Pepper points at the door, irritably. “We should be planning to expand the area of IntelliCrops, planning how to turn the city into a sustainable power source—"

“That sort of thing takes years—!”

“My point is that you should be thinking about what we can do _here_! For the people that _need_ it!” Pepper cries, anguished. “Going to space to fight this… this _alien enemy_ is _crazy. It's **crazy**_ , Tony. You're going to risk your life to do something you don’t even know it'll work when you're the only one who can actually fix this is you _stay._ ”

(She doesn’t understand.)

And it’s a nice though. It really is.

They might even work – the IntelliCrops do work faster and better than most of many agricultural alternatives, genetically modified to stand extremely strenuous conditions, maybe even a mass genocide, Tony isn't sure. Maybe, with the right team of geneticists, Tony could modify to withstand the future conditions. Hell, the right team of geneticist would probably not even need him. God, it would be so much better if he knew where Cho is, if she’s even… if she’s even still around. Tony could sit down and read and learn about it, and do it himself, but he has no _time_ for that. There are other geneticists and other emergency responders and other engineers and other specialists – but no one else knows about aliens and otherworldly threats like they do. He will help, he’ll do whatever he can, he will – but no one else but _Tony_ can figure out a way to do this.

In any other moment, Tony would split himself in half, in however many pieces he needed, to help everyone that cried his name in plea, but he _can’t_ , because he’s the Avengers’ engineer, he’s their _visionary_ , their futurist, and if they’re going to find the purple bastard and take him down, and _reverse_ what he has done, the Avengers need their engineer.

Pepper doesn’t accept that.

That’s the problem.

That’s always the problem.

“I can’t, Pep.” Tony says, distraughtly. “I _can’t._ ”

Same old song and dance.

Over the years, Tony and Pepper have fought a lot. Before they were a thing, they'd fight about meetings and stocks, about Tony's dismissal for the shareholders and Pepper's insanely rigid schedule, about how they had always been different in their approaches, two people who shouldn’t have worked well together but they did, because they made it work. It drove them crazy, but they did it. They became a force to be reckoned with – and it’s hard, not to fall in love with it. With the feeling of belonging against all odds, to defy fate and _enjoy_ it.

To feel powerful and vulnerable at the same time. To have companionship. To be… seen.

But after Afghanistan, even as Tony realized he wanted Pepper Potts in his life not as his PA, but as his partner, his girlfriend, his _wife_ , something changed. Tony changed.

It’s not that Tony became reckless – any footage on the Internet will be more than enough proof to show that Tony's self-preservation instincts are the worst ever registered since 1970, and he knows it –, he had been reckless from the _start_. And Pepper knew it. She knew he drank, he slept around, he didn't eat or rest right, he was irresponsible, he was a _weapons manufacturer._ A warmonger. She’d known that, she had known every single bullet point in his laundry list of character defects, every single crappy thing he’d done during his thirties, and—

And she decided she could accept it.

He had seen him past his persona. She had seen him up close. And still, she decided to stay.

At that time, Tony would have denied her nothing. Tony… Tony was so in love, so hopeless and desperate to keep her, so utterly entranced with this woman that we would have done anything she had asked without so much of a second thought.

Until he made Iron Man.

Tony had never been in any life-risking situation until then. Not really. He'd have Happy follow him everywhere, often accompanied by another four or five bodyguards, even though he didn’t need to, because no one cared enough about a spoiled, selfish brat of a billionaire to try anything like a hit on his life – it had just been a habit. His bodyguards helped keep stalkers or anyone too handsy away. To help him maintain an appearance, to make himself untouchable, and nothing more.

After Iron Man, it's like a line formed outside his house, threat after threat, all of them just waiting for the right moment to knock at the door and get the chance to finally finish what Afghanistan has started.

Tony knew this would happen. He’d known. The feeling had been creeping up to him since the cave, the array of weapons with his name embezzled on the side, a mockery of his dream, of his morality, and he just hadn’t realized it yet. Hard to do so, when he was counting the days until the Ten Rings finally decided they had enough of him, until he finished the Mark I, until he was _out._ But it had been there. It had been there when he shut down the manufacturing of weapons of SI, it had been there when he spent three weeks awake planning and creating Marks II and III and all the ones that followed.

It exploded in Gulmira. But the seed had already been there.

Tony had known that he was signing for a war he had no way of leaving. Tony came out as Iron Man as soon as he had the chance because he isn’t _ashamed_ , he never will be ashamed of protecting people and doing all he can to keep the world safe. It’s not about fame. It’s not about glory, or status, no matter what he made people believe during that terrible year of the Stark Expo, because he just… he was just trying to have some happiness and adrenaline before the Palladium took him out. But it was never about that.

It’s always about ensuring the future. Ensuring people will be safe. To make up for his mistakes, to prove, to himself and to others, that Tony Stark can be _good_ , to remind the world that it can be better and it can be improved and he’ll do all he can to make it happen.

Even if it means danger.

And this, Pepper doesn’t get. It frustrates him – even if he can understand her side, because he can, he’d also go mad with worry if _she_ was the one going out to fight aliens and terrorists with no concrete proof she'd ever come back, really, he _gets it_ –, but she doesn’t understand that Tony can't stop this. Not after what he saw in that cave, and the chance to stop it all so close to his own reach.

Tony is just trying to do good.

He’s more than just a warmonger, he can protect people, he always will, over and over again, and this is what he was born to do. He knows that, he knows it to be sure just as he knows numbers and equations, physics and energy – to him, it's just another one of the rules of his universe, of the forces that drive his life, the things that make him feel _alive_.

Tony believes in numbers. Tony believes in equations.

(Tony believes in heroes.)

(Dammit, he does, and screw Coulson for punching that into him.)

(Like a brand, like a tattoo forever marring Tony’s skin.)

(Something that’s now part of _him_.)

He doesn’t care if he puts his life on the line. _He doesn’t care._ Tony knows, with no reservations or doubts, that he is part of something bigger than himself, something he can contribute to, to ensure the world will be better and be safe, and that’s all he’s ever cared about. He’s a futurist – he’s _the_ futurist; And he knows that in the grand scheme of things, his life over the life of millions, _billions_ , where billions of possibilities can arise, billions of chances for other people to carry on and continue to keep the world turning faster and becoming brighter, Tony's life is a more than fair trade, and he's happy to give it and make it happen, no questions asked.

Pepper doesn’t get that.

Pepper wants him to compromise. Pepper wants him to stop and think it through, to find alternatives, to _not do this_ , not sacrifice himself thoughtlessly.

She has a point. She does! Tony is not saying she doesn't.

Tony is not _eager_ to die –

(Not now, anyway.)

(Sometimes he is, sometimes he isn't.)

He simply knows that it’s a possibility in his line of work, and he’s fine with that. Pepper isn’t.

And they never find a middle ground.

He will always come back. He always has. Tony destroyed his armors, but built the Iron Legion; He promised less involvement with the fight, but then he built Ultron; he promised to sign a document that would keep him from fighting when he shouldn’t, and then he fought his own teammate over the very same document.

Promises, promises. Tony is always breaking his promises to her.

(Because he doesn’t know how not to fight.)

“I can’t.” Tony admits pained. “I _can't_ fix this, Pepper. Not here.”

“Why _not_?”

Tony runs his hands over his face, roughly, fingers digging into his eyes so forcefully he can see white spots all over when he opens them, unhinged. “We don't have _time,_ honey. There’s no time. I can't fix anything of the planet will destroy itself before I get the chance to fix it.”

“We don't even know how much time we have—"

“We can’t risk it.” Tony argues forcefully. He gestures to her, his palms pressed together in a mocking gesture of prayer, but the begging tone in his voice is all real. “Please, you have to understand. This is not me risking my life for the hell of it. This time, there really is _no choice._ ”

“You _always_ think you don’t have a choice, Tony!”

(Because it’s _his_ fight.)

(It’s _his_ burden.)

(Not hers.)

(Not anyone else’s.)

Tony could have chosen to tell her about the Palladium. About his PTSD. He could have told her, even if in the end she did end up finding out. He hadn’t needed to give the Mandarin his home address. He hadn’t needed to make so many suits, or make the Iron Legion. There were other heroes, after New York. Other heroes who worked as heroes full-time, not like Tony, who had a job, a billion-dollar company to take care of, and a girlfriend clearly uneasy with the consequences of his superhero gig. Tony wouldn’t have passed down the mantle, not while he was still able to fight – but as far as everyone else was concerned, the Iron Legion wasn’t necessary. Ultron wasn’t necessary. Tony had just been paranoid, and obsessed, and he had all chances to step back, to not get involved in the higher-risk missions, and he never _took them._

Whatever Tony does, it always leads him back to the fight. Even when he tries to step away, it’s like his body pulls him back unconsciously.

But this is not the same.

It’s not.

(He could try.)

(He could design something to clear the atmosphere faster.)

(He could improve the IntelliCrops. He could share the workings of his own self-sustained power lines with the rest of the world.)

(He could try to restructure society.)

(He could.)

(It’s an option.)

(But it’s not—)

It’s not his choice.

“Pep.” Tony murmurs. “I’m sorry. I have to do this.”

Pepper lets out a sob, that drags and scratches her throat from the sound of it, the dry heaving and the shallow breath, and she covers her mouth with her hand and turns around to hide her face, but not fast enough that Tony can’t see the way her eyes well up with tears, not fast enough that he doesn’t see the pain he’s causing her, that it won’t haunt him until the day he dies.

“I’m sorry.” He say again, and it’s useless.

He’s sorry.

But he’ll do it.

He’ll do it anyway.

She doesn’t answer. She keeps her back to him. She trembles. Tony doesn’t know if the tears actually fall down or no, but it doesn’t matter, because he brought those tears to her eyes anyway and that’s bad enough on its own. There’s… There’s nothing else he can say. What else could he say? That he’ll be okay? That he’ll come back? That he didn’t want this? That he _promises_ he’ll survive to come home to her, if she’ll have him?

Tony can’t promise that.

No matter how hard he wishes it were true, he has no way of knowing.

He would, though. It’s true. Tony would come back to her, if she wanted him to, after… after this is all over.

But he won’t ask her to take him back.

He has already hurt her enough.

With a whispered apology, Tony walks out dragging his feet, feeling like has just been hit by a goddamned train, head down and heart aching so terribly that it feels like he’s bleeding out again, gutted to the very core, when he bumps with Rhodey and Bruce at the corner of the corridor, both frozen still like deer caught on the headlights.

Tony stares at them. They stare back, silent and shocked, frozen stiff.

 _“_ How much did you hear?” he asks, in an exhausted huff.

Both of them make the worst poker faces Tony has ever seen in his life, and he sighs.

“Okay, let's move on.”

“Tony.” Rhodey says kindly. “She has a point.”

“Yeah, so do I.” Tony childishly replies, but he doesn't care, because it’s true. “We can’t keep doing what we did today, spreading ourselves thin when we can go straight to the source of all these problems and reverse it.”

“I don’t know if we can actually do that, Tony.” Bruce counters. “We don’t know we’re Thanos is, we have no idea how to find him. And Thor was right – he has the Gauntlet. We don’t have anything strong enough to stop him.”

_Not yet._

“And Pepper is not… _wrong._ ” Bruce continues. “It’s not… the first something like this has happened in history. The world was once in a ten-year-long winter, with far less than what we have today, and we still made it out.”

“How many?” Tony snaps, impatiently. “How many made it out?”

“Not many.” Bruce admits, sorrowfully.

“Exactly.” Tony accuses. “So while we sit here, arguing about this, people are dying out there, and we have no way of stopping it. Finding him and bringing everyone back is the best way to make this right. It fixes everything, and no one dies.”

Rhodey and Bruce watch him quietly, their mouths twisting in uncertainty, and Tony can’t stand to be here and watch them agonize over it when the roar of emotions and adrenaline are wreaking havoc inside his bruised ribs, with the scorching fire of vengeance and the wallow of hurt crying in echoes inside his mind, when he should be _moving._ He should be planning.

He should be fixing this.

Tony dodges them and their pitiful stares, uncaring, unable to accept their sympathy, and marches back into the common area to find the others talking anxiously, exchanging rapid words and wild hand gestures, with his breathing ragged from distress and hands closed into determined fists, steel resolution solid in his spine.

This is his choice.

“You think it’s possible?” Natasha asks, as soon as Tony is in her line of sight. Her face is smeared with soot. “To bring them back?”

Tony takes in a deep breath, steeling himself for this conversation, the intensity of their gazes striking him with the same heat the repulsors of the armor produce. “The Gauntlet took them away. Nothing says it couldn’t bring them back.”

“We don’t know how that thing works, to be honest.” Bruce mumbles from somewhere behind him, but it’s not exactly a protest.

“What we _know_ is that that thing is the most powerful artifact in the _universe._ Whether it’s magic, or science, or whatever the hell it is, it holds _more power_ than anything else, and if _something_ is gonna be able to bring back four billion people it’s going to be that Gauntlet.”

“So you’re saying you want to steal it from him.” Rogers says, half inquiry, half _something else_ , something Tony has no time to overanalyze right now, not when he feels like there’s molten lava running through his veins _._

“He stole the Stones from us first.” Tony bites. “Feel like it’s a fair trade.”

“Is it even possible?” Rocket asks.

“It _is._ ”  Tony confesses. “We nearly had it. Me and… the others. The Guardians. Strange. We had him trapped and almost got the thing off his hand. He got loose, but it’s possible. We just have to hold him off.”

“He is stronger than all of us combined.” Natasha begrudgingly admits.

“We don’t have to be stronger, we just need to be faster.”

“Aren’t you all forgetting something?”

They all go quiet, and they turn to Rocket with questioning stares.

“Even if we steal that gauntlet from him, and don’t die in the process, _we don’t know_ it that thing can stand a second snap.” Rocket reminds them. “Thor said it – it was nearly broken. What’s gonna happen if we try to use it and it explodes in our hands?”

“You think we shouldn’t use it?” Rogers arches one eyebrow, face hard.

“I’m sayin’ we should have a _backup_ , in case something bad happens to that one.”

“You want to build our own Gauntlet.” Tony breathlessly says. “Do you know how to do one?”

“No, but Thor knows someone who does.”

Thor, who had been sitting silently and watched carefully, stiffens at the sudden attention, his eyes gleaming with some sorrowful emotion too grand for them to comprehend, but he does stand up and faces them to say:

“There’s a forge, in a place not many know that exists. It was the home of the Dwarves, the mightiest blacksmiths of all Nine Realms. Eitri, the Dwarf King, said Thanos forced him to make the Gauntlet in exchange for the life of his people.”

The pain in his voice is enough clue to how well that bargain had ended.

“He was the last one left when he got there.”

“Is he alive?” Rogers asks, quietly.

“He was, until we left. He… He made me this.” Thor swings the axe around, throwing it quickly in the air before catching it again, as if he’s still getting acquainted with the weight of it. “He said he’d rather stay at the forge and wait for our return. But with Thanos’ decimation, I don’t know if he survived. Or even if he could forge another Gauntlet. Thanos took his hands away.”

“Thor, we need to find him.” Tony presses, as kindly as he can. “If he’s still alive, he might be the only one who can help us build this thing.”

Thor nods slowly. “As soon as the sun rises, I will go to the forge and ask for his help. Stormbreaker can travel through the Realms as fast as the Bifrost could. If Eitri is still there, he should be able to aid us in building another Infinity Gauntlet.”

Tony exhales in deep relief, and he whispers a grateful reply, his shoulders slumping a little in response to Thor’s careful nod of recognition.

“We also need to worry about the people out there, Tony. Isn’t that what we agreed on?” Bruce reminds him, softly.

“We will.” Tony assures. “FRIDAY is working on finding surviving SHIELD agents and bringing them all to comms. Aren’t you, FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Boss.” FRIDAY chips in efficiently.

“What about government? Any idea what happened?”

“I believe we still have open lines to thirty-nine nations. I am currently working on opening on seven channels more.” FRIDAY reports. “I also have guaranteed access to all functioning SHIELD satellites, as requested by Agent Romanov.”

“What message should we send?” Tony asks Natasha.

“Tell them all to check in. We’re doing a count of how many we have left.” Natasha replies. “Send in ID and location, and wait for further instruction.”

“Until we get back to them, they are to stay inside, somewhere safe.” Rogers adds. “If they have eyes on civilians, they should try to stay together. Avoid being alone. Stay warm, and gather food.”

“Got that, FRI?”

“Yes, Boss.”

“We should send them a message.” Natasha suggests, thoughtfully. “To everyone. Explain what happened. If there’s anyone out there who doesn’t know why they suddenly saw a friend turn to ash, they need to know.”

Rhodey sighs heavily. “She’s right.”

Tony’s mouth twists in frustration, his head pounding with exhaustion, and yet, he is the one who turns and says:

“You wanna get on that, Rogers?”

Rogers’ eyes turn sharply to Tony’s. “Me?”

“Would you rather have Build-A-Bear do it?” Tony vaguely gestures in Rocket’s direction, tired. “Everyone knows Captain America. They’ll recognize you. They need a familiar face right now.”

(Someone they can trust.)

That is a sentence Tony won’t say out loud.

“We’ve been hiding for two years, Tony.”

Tony resists the urge to throw it at his face that that is his own damn fault, and says instead:

“You’re the one who makes the speeches.” His voice is sarcastic, nearly dismissive, and when Rogers’ jaw squeezes tight in that old quirk of his, the one Tony has come to associate with the imminence of an argument, he nearly regrets poking at this sore wound right at this moment, but in all truth, he’s too tired to care. “You’ll be better at it than any of us will.”

Rogers looks at him like he wants to say a thousand things, and nearly all of them would for sure make Tony fume with anger, but in the end, none of them make it past his lips.

“Okay.” Rogers agrees. “I will.”

And the agreement – the sensation of accomplishment, of a small, minuscule victory in the middle of his mess, the tentative step forward in the right direction, it’s the only thing that keeps Tony from shattering where he stands. He’s exhausted. He’s so, so tired. His mind feels like it’s overheating, trying to run in too many directions at once, flooding with plans and to-do lists and pressing concerns, one trampling the other, never standing still.

His armor will have to be improved.

He doesn’t know how yet, but it will. He has to work on that, fast. Review footage from the armor, see what was effective or not, make it stronger. He’s not looking forward to it. He knows what he’ll see in that footage. He knows he’ll see—

He also needs to fix the ship, probably. The Benatar. That thing is not in a very good state. Nebula can probably help, maybe Rocket as well, if he knows the thing well enough. They’ll need it, so they can… go to space. Jesus, the very idea of it makes a shiver run down his spine.

Maybe Nebula can start working on it while Tony goes downstairs and checks the schematics for the IntelliCrops. Bruce could get a head start on reading some research on atmospheric pollution and proposed solutions to global sunlight dimming. There’s probably a lot of material there. Maybe not a functional, quick solution, but Tony can make it work.

It’s best if Tony heads down to the lab. Right away.

(Not like he can go back to his room tonight.)

He’s about to say so – that he’ll be leaving to his lab, that is, and he’ll leave handling Rogers to Natasha, because Tony is all wiped out for today –, when suddenly—

“Boss?” FRIDAY interrupts.

“Yeah?”

FRIDAY makes a pause, and then, firmly, says:

“I have located May Parker.”

Tony halts.

Tony—

 

(He promised.)

 

(He promised to keep the kid safe.)

 

(Oh God, what will he tell her?)

 

(How can he—)

 

(Pete is gone.)

 

(He’s gone, and Tony failed, how can he tell her that?)

 

(His aunt—)

 

(May Parker.)

 

(Oh _fuck_ , May Parker.)

 

“Tony?” Rogers says, strong voice cutting deep through Tony’s despair, and Tony raises his eyes to look at him and realizes his vision is blurred, his eyes burning with tears, his entire body shaking and sweating cold, breath stuttering in his throat.

“I need to go.” Tony chokes. “You make the— Make the thing. Make… I have to go. I have to—"

And Tony turns and runs, runs, runs—

Runs as the armor envelops him quickly and efficiently, launching him into the air, the repulsors of the boots flaring hot and bright to push him forward faster and faster, away from the staring eyes, but straight into what feels like the jaws of death. He needs to go, he doesn’t want to, he needs to, he needs to tell her, she’ll hate him for it—

He needs to tell her.

And when he’s mid-flight, he cries.

 

She’s in Queens.

Exactly where she was before. Where Pete was supposed to be.

Home.

She sees him, eyes wide and mouth parted in a gasp, when she opens the door. She’s wearing a jacket inside. Her apartment is freezing cold.

Tony can only stand there, trembling, clenching his jaw so hard it hurts.

He is alone in this hallway.

He shouldn’t be.

“Is he—?” She starts, but the words fade out in a jagged edge, like a record scratching, terror hiding beneath a frail attempt of composure; the terrible, terrible anticipation, the desperate hope, the nearly hopeless question.

Tony presses his lips together, fighting a scream, and shakes his head.

_No._

And May Parker breaks down in front of him, and all Tony can do is watch.

 

She is a nurse, Tony remembers.

Fierce, resilient. Wants to help. Knows first aid.

She says, in a whisper, after the tears have already stolen almost all of her voice away, that she has been helping whoever she can.

She almost went back to the hospital, she tells him. She was so worried. Worried for the seniors and the children. For her colleagues. For everyone.

But she didn’t.

She kept the lights on. The windows open. She knew about him.

She had been waiting for him to come home.

 

A sniff. “Was it the dust?”

A pause. A shaky breath. “…Yeah.”

A tear. A sob.

Silence.

(It can’t end like this.)

(It can’t, it can’t—)

( _It can’t—_ )

( ** _The kid—_** )

“I’ll bring him back.”

A pause.

A look.

A tear. Two.

“I’ll bring him back.” He croaks. “I don’t know how yet, but I’ll find a way. I promise.”

 

He promises.

 

 

He _swears_ on his _life._

 

 

What time is it? He doesn’t know.

It’s dark outside.

It’s dark inside too.

Tony is not sure where he’s going.

“Tony?” Says a soft voice, so gentle and so kind, a little rough around the edges. It’s full of promises of comfort, of caring concern, and it makes Tony freeze, because his body can’t properly compute it right now. The world feels to hostile. Sharp. Cold. The warmth is foreign, unexpected, and its presence catches him so off guard he feels like he’s about to fall, to collapse, unable to hold himself up. “Are you okay?”

Is he okay?

Is he—

No.

No.

He’s not.

Tony closes his eyes, head hanging low, and when he tries to breathe, tries to open his mouth to speak, what comes out is a sob, a distorted sound losing itself around the agony, and it echoes through the walls in the most agonizing way, piercing his ears.

“Come here.” She says and – and her arms are around him, gentle and warm, loving, protecting, and Tony doesn’t deserve it but he melts into the embrace anyway, he crumbles and falls, the shaky foundation of the walls around his heart tumbling down so fast they crash and burn inside, and he quakes, and shivers, and wails.

“The kid, Pep.” Tony whispers, and holds her tight, and cries, and – “I—"

(He lost.)

(He lost the fight.)

(He lost the kid.)

(He _promised._ )

Tony cries into her shoulder for what feels like a lifetime.

He cries for the kid.

He cries because he feels like he has lost a part of himself with Peter, a hole gaping inside his chest in a shape no one else can fill, the space between his arms still feeling hollow and empty even as Pepper occupies the space with her own frame. Tony feels like his hands are still stained with his ashes. His muscles want to squeeze around a person who is no longer there, to comfort and be comforted by someone that can’t be reached, and he mourns, he mourns for the kid he loved so much he thought of like his own, the kid who made him wish for _family._

Tony has lost him.

Tony has lost his son.

Pepper holds him. Cradles his head. Runs her fingers through his hair.

Guides him to bed. Lays down with him.

Cries quietly.

They cry into the darkness in silence. They cry until there’s no tears left to spill, their bodies exhausted and wrung to all capacity, hollow and empty. Inert. The bed is cold and the room is colder, and they both are sweaty and trembling in each other’s embrace, weak comfort and thin discomfort existing in the same space, drowned beneath a thick layer of dull throbbing pain pounding into their temples.

They do not sleep.

“Tony.” Pepper calls, hoarsely, and Tony listens.

He doesn’t move.

But he listens.

“I know what you want to do, Tony.” She tells him, softly. “And I know why you want to do it. I know. But I…”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut.

He knows.

He thinks of Pepper, despairing on a rooftop, telling him she’ll quit because every moment with him feels like dog years. He thinks of her quitting because she sees the bullet holes in his armor and can’t stand the idea that he’ll die for it. He thinks of her quitting when his nightmares woke her up and his armor threatened her for trying to keep him safe, like it had a life of its own, like Iron Man itself had been trying to stop her from stopping Tony.

He thinks of May Parker, who could have slapped him in the face, could have screamed, could have killed him, but didn’t. Who knew about her nephew being too strong, too eager, too… heroic, to stand still, and had loved him too much to make him quit. Had despaired. Had hoped he’d always come back.

Until he didn’t.

“I believe in you.” Pepper confesses. “I _know_ you. I know you won’t be able to sleep until you fix this.”

It’s true.

He won’t.

“But please try.” She begs, and holds him tighter. “Please try to find another way. I can’t lose you too. I can’t watch you do this again.”

He’ll try.

Tony will try. He owes her that. He loves her, he loves her, and for her, he will try.

But Tony has made his choice.

He will reverse this. He will bring them back.

(He’ll bring his kid back.)

(His kid.)

(He will bring his kid back.)

No matter the danger. Whatever it takes.

He doesn’t care.

He will bring them back.

And it kills him to know that Pepper knows it too. That she knows what it might cost.

Because she loves him. Loves him too much to make him quit. Loves him too much to be blind to who he is, to what he needs to do, and what it means to him.

She wants him to stay, because she knows that if he goes, this might be finally it.

The day when she’ll wait for him to come back.

Until she finds out he won’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost done with Pepper, my friends. I told you it wouldn't be easy. But it is necessary, because this issue has dragged on for far too long, and although there's a universe out there where they might've been able to surpass this in a softer, kinder way, this isn't that universe. Sometimes, it hurts. I'm not afraid of showing that, because if we're dealing with truth, then we have to face it all. My world is not very kind, I'm afraid.
> 
> We'll go back to some plot next time! As we step a little further into this journey, we'll need some clever minds to aid Tony in his plan to find and defeat Thanos - a genius is always great, but hell, two, three, maybe four, is even better than one, don't you think? ;) So we will start discussing them, in the next chapter! I hope you're excited for it! The MCU has given us so much information they never used, I can't wait to put it all into action for you guys. It's going to be very fun!
> 
> Lastly, I would like to apologize to all left a comment on the previous chapter that I haven't replied to yet - Don't worry, I read them all and I'm very happy and grateful to each and every one of you, I promise! I love you guys. But it is finals week and as you can imagine, I am slowly dying. Please, send help. I'll get back to you as soon as I can, every single one of you, and until I do, I hope you can enjoy this chapter and some of my other fics, if you'd like.
> 
> Thank you all so much once again <3 I'll see you in the next one.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about some plot? ;)
> 
> We're gonna get a little technical from this chapter on. We still have to finish talking about Pepper, of course, but we can't forget that the world is ending, now, can we? We have to do something about that. So we will!
> 
> As I said, no movie in this franchise is safe from me.
> 
> This chapter also includes an extra treat: the introductions of a few characters I'm very eager to discuss a little more. Well, it'll be a treat for me. I wonder how you are going to feel about it when we get there. There sure will be some diverging opinions, I suspect. But since when am I known for avoiding delicate topics? They won't have entire arcs of their own, unfortunately - but see if that can stop me from including them and stirring the pot, just because I can. I said no stone unturned. I'm going to keep that promise. 
> 
> Our heroes have a lot of work ahead of them.
> 
> This is just a taste of it.

The next day begins with a shift.

Quiet. Barely noticeable.

Tony feels it from _within_.

Pepper is no longer in bed with him when he wakes up. Her side of the bed is cold. He feels her absence with a pang of bitterness, a bad taste at the bad of his tongue, a terrible sensation together with the dryness of his mouth. He hasn’t rested at all. To wake up alone after Pepper’s whispers in the night before, after feeling the sharp claws of grief maiming him from the inside, threatening to shatter him, he feels like he doesn’t belong in his own body. With the chaos that raged inside him when it was dark – when he wakes up and the cold sunlight seeps in through the glass, silent, almost kind in its softness, it all feels like an illusion. A stranger living in his skin. The ache in his chest throbs in a distant, muffled beat, almost familiar, with the soreness of his muscles, the haze of dread clouding his thoughts, with the taste of salt in his mouth.

He wants to ask FRIDAY where Pepper went.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t think he’s strong enough to hear it yet.

So he goes on alone. He tells himself that _he’ll need to get used to it,_ and it hurts to think about, but he can’t help it. It’s what being too vulnerable does to him. Makes the thoughts louder. Harder to ignore. Tony sighs and rubs his hands on his face, wishing he could wipe away the exhaustion, wishing he could just _sleep_ , and pretend there isn’t a world out there who needs his help. He wishes, even if it’s just for a split second of a moment, that he could ask FRIDAY to call Pepper and ask her to come back to bed. To bundle with her beneath the sheets and sleep for a week, to silently wrap her arms around him and rest easy knowing she’s right there, that they are safe, and he still has her.

But he can’t.

Because he still feels hollow. His skin is still pulling tight when he sniffs and scrunches his eyes shut, his eyes still burn with the feeling of tears.

His kid still isn’t here. So he can’t _stop_.

He is still feeling like his eyes are trying to stay glued together as he walks towards the kitchen to grab some food, a little sore and gross from the feeling of crying himself to sleep, when he walks into the common area, still drowsy and completely unprepared, and finds, of all people—

_Clint Barton—_

( _Wha—_ )

( _When in the fuck—_ )

 **_Clint Barton_ ** _—_

Sitting by the desk, head bowed low and close together to Natasha, his face scrunched in pain.

 _Oh God, Barton_.

And _something_ inside Tony’s head sparks with a flare of realization, something so quick that its gone before he can properly grasp it, and it only leaves him open mouthed and awkward by the entrance, body stiff as a board, like an old man who has just glimpsed a ghost of his long gone past.

_Barton. He’s alive. He’s here._

_Christ, Natasha found him._

"Barton." Tony exhales, shocked, before he can think better of it.

His voice breaks the bubble Natasha and Barton had built around themselves, rips through it like a goddamned weapon, through the invisible wall of secrecy created by their proximity and the breathlessness of their whispers, by the very feel of heaviness in the air between them as they locked eyes. Natasha’s eyes are quick to snap to his, not quite surprised, but distraughtly vulnerable; While Barton, Jesus Christ, _Barton_ , slides his gaze to Tony’s the way a rusty hinge would work, stuttering every inch of the way, like it’s resisting the very movement its meant to do.

It’s wildly uncomfortable, to the point of feeling so deeply, intensely _wrong._ When they do finally meet eyes, Barton’s gaze feels like a snowy mountain top. Cold, distant, with a wave of fog clouding it, blocking everything.

Tony has never seen him look like this.

Not even when he was under Loki’s mind control.

"Stark." He says, and his voice has no emotion to it. No anger, no warmth, no nothing. If not for the use of his name, Tony would almost think Barton doesn’t recognize him.

"What are you doing here?" Tony asks, so taken aback he doesn’t really think what he’s asking until it leaves his mouth.

Barton’s mouth thins as he presses his lips together, eyes going misty, and he replies, in a rough voice:

"Got nowhere else to go."

“Your family—” Tony stutters, and the rest of the words get trapped in his throat, and he can’t force them out.

Oh, no.

Oh, _no._

_His wife. His **children**._

( _Children._ )

( _Thanos took children._ )

( _All of those people, all those kids—!_ )

"I'm sorry." Tony chokes, gulping forcefully to try and push down the odd feeling of swelling he feels inside his mouth, the strength with which the _grief_ of the sudden bad news hits him when he’s totally unprepared.

Barton looks like hell. There is no fight in him that Tony can see. His eyes are blank. Tony has – The last Tony had seen him, it had been through heavy bars and bulletproof glass, with his arm on a sling and a bruise throbbing in his face, with guilt weighing on his shoulders, and Barton had been snarling at his face, mocking him, trapped like a criminal in a cell that was never meant for him. For any of them. Barton had looked at Tony like Tony had been the filthiest thing he had ever seen, a low bastard who had somehow betrayed him, like that was _all_ Tony ever amounted to – a _traitor._ Tony still feels his stomach churn when he remembers it. But there had been emotion, there had been something alive inside him, and now, all Tony sees before him is a husk of a man, someone who, oh _fuck_ , has also lost it _all_ in this mess, who is _alone_ , and has nothing else inside him to keep him present.

Tony has no right to feel like he should walk up to him and lay a hand on his shoulder, but he does. Christ, he wishes he could do _something_ , but he knows it’s not his place. He has no right. Even if the pain in Tony’s chest seems like it echoes in Barton’s own, Tony cannot move, because what sort comfort can he offer?

Natasha reaches out and grabs Barton’s hand with a grip so strong it could hurt, and it probably does, but Barton does nothing but turn his hand and hold her back with the same strength, so much that his fingers are trembling, and he lowers his gaze, turning his head away from both Tony and Natasha, looking at the floor.

"I saw the message on a store. All screens and radios were playing it. When I saw Cap I... I called. Nat convinced me to come."

Tony hadn't seen the message. The image of May Parker crying on her couch, back hunched and face hidden in her shaking hands, sobs wrecking her frame, overtakes Tony’s head and it makes him feel like absolute _shit_ , makes his knees feel weak, and it completely muffles the memory that Rogers was supposed to be reaching out for survivors while Tony was out. He’ll see it later. He’s just –

Well. He’s glad Barton is alive. He is. He’s just not sure if he should say it. He doesn’t know how Barton will react if he does.

“Are you hurt?” Tony asks instead, his gaze running through Barton head to toe, eyes sharp on any indication of an injury, but Barton simply takes in a deep breath and shakes his head. Natasha squeezes Barton’s hand even tighter and turns to Tony with a look in her eyes that makes very clear that she needs him to stay away, and Tony nods in agreement and takes a step back.

"We got replies from nearly two thousand agents, and we might have more incoming in the next hours." Natasha quietly informs him, her tone all business, diverging the attention of the conversation to a different topic. “Steve, Rhodes and Pepper are downstairs, talking to the agents who made it here.”

“How many?” Tony asks, accepting the change in the subject easily.

“Seventy-two, last I heard.” Natasha signals to him with her chin. “Go. Steve will want to see you.”

Tony has no idea why the hell Rogers would want to see him, _him_ specifically _,_ but he does need to head down and see what’s going on – why had FRIDAY not informed him as soon as the first responder showed up? Suddenly, the absence of Pepper on his side seems less lonely and much more pressing. Tony leaves with a final nod and a quick glance at Barton, who still sits curled in on itself like he’s trying to disappear, and Natasha wraps her free arm around his shoulders and pulls him to a half-hug that makes Barton’s shoulders hitch in a sob Tony can’t hear.

He turns around.

This is not a moment he’s allowed to be a part of.

Hunger and lethargy become unimportant immediately. Tony knows they are probably by the lower entrance, one of the only places that are wide enough to accommodate all the people who have come answering Rogers’ call, and it’s no surprise that when the elevator doors open, the sound of many anxious and rapid voices find him in an echo, overwhelming I comparison to the dreadful silence of the previous days, a rush of stimuli Tony was not ready to confront so suddenly after the previous night.

The sight of a crowd makes a rush of adrenaline pump into his veins, a brief moment of confusion quickly drowned beneath a dangerous sense of _hope_ , the faint but so tempting possibilities of building a force large and powerful enough to actually pull this off, to manage to complete both missions without having to give any of them up.

Hope is such a dangerous thing.

Tony is _glad_ he still has it.

He steps closer, and then he realizes that in front of this crowd, talking amongst themselves, are Pepper, Rhodey, Rogers, and two other people. Tony doesn’t get a good look on their faces from where he’s standing, but even before he can try to get a glimpse, he steps close enough to attract attention, and someone in the crowd notices him. And slowly, they all do.

Tony stares at them as they stare back, as if they are all shocked to be here, his steps unconsciously slowing down to take in the wave in which the crowd gains awareness of his presence, in shocked whispers and startled motions, in wide-eyed gazes and head raising in surprised anticipation. To _see_ this crowd turn in his direction, to watch him walk towards them like he is some sort of spirit they have never expected to see made flesh – is a grim, surprising, _scary_ reminder that they all probably thought he was _dead_ , and now they are watching him as if he’s raising from the grave. Tony, who had once relished in the fact he was the personification of the phoenix, who believed rebirth was the sole purpose of his existence, that resurgence from the ashes was his mission, his destiny, now… Now it feels like disappointment, like he’s disappointed _them_ , because he didn’t fulfill his promise, and they still don’t realize how deeply the failed. He has no right to their breathless surprise. He has done nothing to earn it.

Their movement attracts the attention of the group at the front too. He’s thankful for the distraction.

“Tony.” Both Pepper and Rogers call out when they see him, again, like his name is an entire sentence, too many feelings and too much meaning packed into two mere syllables, too many questions Tony has no way of answering with his lungs being so breathless.

“We have people.” Tony lamely replies, striding quickly towards them, itching to not be under the scrutinizing, pointed stare of the crowd. Tony goes directly to Pepper’s side, an instinct too old to avoid, but he only belatedly realizes that also puts him next to Rogers, and it’s too late to go around and stay next to Rhodey without being glaringly obvious about it.

 _It’s Mr. Stark!_ He hears someone exclaim, followed by other rushed whispers of _Mr. Stark!_ , and _We still have Iron Man_ , and, perhaps the most unexpected response ever, a loud and relieved _Thank God._

“We do.” Rogers replies a beat too late, voice perfectly leveled, but body language extremely tight and tense. “A few more just arrived. We’re rounding on eighty people so far.”

“Quick response.” Tony nonsensically replies, before he snaps a little more awake, more aware, and his brain actually provides a question that is relevant. “What do they have for us?”

“Basically the same report, over and over again.” Rhodey replies frustratedly, his gaze sweeping swiftly through the people gathered before them, in a pondering manner. “They said they saw a lot of accidents, almost all of them. Some people found civilians and instructed them to stay together and indoors. A few of them—”

He pauses, and looks around for someone quickly, until he find a group standing by the left, talking between themselves in hushed, frantic tones.

“Them, those four.” Rhodey points to them discretely. “They said they passed a place, it looked like a school, but there was someone inside screaming about… _Judgment Day_.”

“That doesn’t sound good.” Tony idiotically replies.

“They looked inside, but they were thrown out.” Rhodey says, “It was just… a couple of families. Adults and children. They were praying. But it all looked very…”

“Intense.” Pepper offers, with a pointed look in Tony’s direction, a look that means so much more than what she actually says. “Dangerous.”

They need to talk. He and Pepper.

They… They just need to talk.

“I’m…” Tony stutters, swiping his tongue across his chapped bottom lip, discomfort tight in his belly. “I’m not sure how we’re supposed to deal with that.”

“You’re not.” A voice interrupts, kind but undoubtedly firm, making itself known with no intentions of being ignored. Somewhat irritated, even. Fair, considering that Tony suddenly realizes he _had_ been completely ignoring the other two people present in the group before he arrived, unknowingly. He takes a moment to look at them, _really_ look, and a flash of recognition strikes through him quick and sharp, breath getting caught in his lungs.  

“Carter.” Tony says, a breathless exhale of surprise escaping his lips. “Right? Sharon. Agent 13.”

“That’s me.” _Carter_ , Tony remembers her, blonde hair and sharp eyes, smile always sitting on the edge of gentle and dangerous, and Tony actually feels some measure of relief bloom inside him at the sight of her. He knows her, he knows what she can do, and she is _good_. Christ, he’s glad she’s here. She _survived_. “I’m glad to see you with us, Mr. Stark. It’s good to see you safe.”

“You too, Agent.” Tony says, with full honesty, even though he suspects there’s not a single thing that could have wiped Agent Carter from this Earth against her will, from her strong posture and unwavering will.

Tony hasn’t seen her in years, but he remembers her well.

“Have you – You have any news for us?”

“Nothing you don’t already have.” Carter says begrudgingly, as if the lack of extra information personally offends her. “Captain Rogers has given us a run-down of the situation, and we’re going to be dividing into units to make sure we cover ground more efficiently.”

“You told them?” Tony asks Rogers, half in surprise, but with an edge of sharp judgment sneaking into his words without his permission.

“Just us.” The man next to Carter says, in a quick, almost skittish tone, before taking half a step forward to make himself a little more noticeable. “Mr. Stark, I’m not sure you remember me, my name is—"

“Everett Ross.” Tony’s brain immediately supplies, and it comes out of his mouth just as fast, the memory clicking with certainty in his head. “Yeah, I remember you. CIA.”

“That’s right.”

Tony does remember. He remembers both of them. He remembers them from the Accords, from Vienna and from Washington, from Thunderbolt Ross and Zemo and so many other shitty things. He can’t help but suppress a laugh at the sheer irony of it, of having them here, in this moment, when Rogers and his merry band are back. Christ, Barton is upstairs now too. Though… Though Tony knows he cannot expect Wilson or Maximoff to ever show up, because – because they’re _gone_ , and… And now it’s too late for that.

But Tony remembers good things too. Sharon Carter is an exceptional agent, delightfully professional and incredibly skillful, and she is firm and no doubt a good fighter. Putting her in charge of a unit would be incredibly helpful. They have never worked directly with one another, always trapped with the interference of Ross between them, the chaos of finding Barnes – _Zemo_ – in Vienna and holding back the UN and finding Rogers and Wilson, all at once, it wasn’t the best scenario to build a nice and cohesive workflow, but Tony had seen enough. Enough to trust that she is good at her job, and a good person.

A person with firmness to follow her moral code, for sure. Not that Tony would drag her into _other matters_. He has no proof. No one does. But the rumors of her involvement with the disappearance of Rogers’ shield and Wilson’s armor right before Leipzig, then Carter’s sudden drop off the radar for weeks, and everything – It’s not hard to _guess._

Well. If anything, she acted. She acted to do something she thought it would help.

That’s what matters now.

Leipzig seems like a lifetime ago, anyway.

Everett Ross, however, Tony knows even less about. He knows he was the one in charge of Zemo after T’Challa dropped him off at CIA’s doorstep wrapped like a Christmas present, and in doing so, he got himself involved in some mediation business between CIA and the UN. He’s Air Force, if Tony’s not wrong. Like Rhodey. Tony can see why he and Carter seem to be teaming up instinctively in this. The guy clearly must be good, because Ross let him into some important business with little to no fuss, which is _rare_ , knowing the old bastard, and he is… almost astonishingly diligent, even faced with the terrible odds of his current mission.

Tony, silently, hopes he doesn’t lose that in the middle of the way. He _wishes_ he could feel the drive and the almost carefree confidence Agent Ross seems to have in spades.

“Where’s your boss?” Tony asks, because if no one else will, _he_ has to. He has to ask.

As much as he doesn’t care, he can’t _not care._ He can’t. If he doesn’t, if he’s not paying attention; If anyone, anywhere, decides to revive this dispute just for the sake of trying to gain power over them, nevermind the entire apocalypse that’s happening out there… They can’t have that. They can’t have anyone, not even the likes of General Ross, messing with the already far too delicate peace they have silently agreed to keep in order to find a solution to this. It’s no more than a thin veil of appeasement, an excuse of forgiveness, and Tony can’t have anyone disturbing that on top of everything else, or else he won’t be able to take it.

 “We don’t know.” Everett Ross tells him, with startling honesty. “No one can find him. But if we _do_ find him, Mr. Stark, it would not be a problem.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, taken aback by the sheer earnestness of the man.

“We are here to answer the distress call that was sent to us. We only want to understand what we’re dealing with, so we can help the people out there.” Ross – _urgh_ , weird, no-good comparison; maybe he should just call him _Agent_ –, _Agent_ Ross affirms with a confidence so crystal clear that is honestly kind of hard not to feel a little swept away by his conviction.

“Do you have a plan?” Tony asks.

“Captain Rogers was helping us organize into teams so we can divide our tasks better.” Agent Ross informs.

“There’s a few bases we need to cover.” Pepper adds, in a quick and efficient commentary, a swift addition that reminds Tony of the way she handles a boardroom. “Find civilians, organize them in teams, look for survivors in accident sites. Distribution of food. Gather a med team and create a basic rescue plan.”

“We have enough people to divide in five teams.” Rhodey continues. “Between recon, field action, rescue and first aid.”

“Some of them are from R&D and tech, too.” Agent Ross informs him. “Perhaps you’d know what’s the best priority for those guys, while we work on the field.”

“Comms.” Tony immediately replies. “We need to bring power back to the city. We need it for heaters, for water distribution, for everything. Filters, too!”

“Filters?” They ask, confused by his sudden outburst.

“We’re gonna need air filters, as many as possible, as soon as possible. That should be a good start, before we come up with something faster.”

“Like air-conditioners?” Agent Ross insists, still clearly confused.

“Bigger. Industrial size. Maybe bigger than that, even.” Tony frantically tells them. “That’s the first thing we need.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, Mr. Stark, but maybe they can help you with those.” Agent Ross motions to the crowd behind them, somewhat to the left, where Tony imagines the R&D personnel might be hiding behind the mob of field agents.

“They can have access to the labs.” Tony guarantees.

“With our resources and FRIDAY they should be able to work on something while you all are out there.” Pepper amends.

“I’ll let them know.” Agent Ross nods firmly, his eyes bright with determination, and he gives a quick glance to all in the group as a quick goodbye, before muttering a very soft _excuse me_ and heading down towards the crowd.

“We will connect you all to the comms of the Compound, so you can contact us faster.” Pepper continues, taking advantage of the lull in the discussion to shift her attention to Agent Carter, who is still standing with them. “FRIDAY can also help with the missions outside. If there’s any emergencies, all you need to do is let us know and we’ll come as soon as we can.”

Tony is surprised, if not a little overwhelmed with how quickly and methodically Pepper is handling this situation, unable to make complete sense of what he’s seeing; And he is still mulling over it when Agent Carter also gives Pepper a nod and gives her thanks, before shifting in her place as if preparing to leave.

But then she stops for a second, and asks, “Will you be joining us in recon?”

“Not yet.” Rhodey replies instead. “We’re waiting for some additional information, and we might still hang here for a few hours to see if it arrives. We’ll get in contact if anything changes.”

Carter nods in agreement. “Got it.”

“I will be supervising contact between you and the Compound.” Pepper tells Carter, taking Tony completely by surprise. “I’ll do my best to make sure the R&D will have what they need to work with around here, we could use the engineers, but I’ll keep my eyes open for you too, in case you need help out there. That includes emergencies, if you need evacuation or an extra hand. Just let me know, and I’ll provide help as soon as possible.”

Tony fumbles, and he leans in closer to her ear so he can whisper, without sounding much like an idiot out loud. “Wait, what do you mean?”

Agent Carter raises her eyebrows after a long blink, but then an almost imperceptible smile pulls at the corner of her lips, and her eyes spark with an intense emotion; and with one final nod and parting thanks, she goes too, lingering for the briefest of seconds, throwing a glance in Rogers’ direction in a way that is not at all very subtle, a low sense of curiosity, but Rogers only nods at her and she accepts this, her hair wiping gracefully as she turns away, her strides large and sure as she walks towards Agent Ross.

Tony doesn’t even take time to think about what that was.

(He knows what it was.)

(Confirmation.)

(That’s what that was.)

He’s far more concerned with turning to Pepper and asking, incredibly confused, “You going out there with them?”

“No, Tony.” Pepper says, in a small sigh. “It’s okay, I can help them from here.”

“But you just said—"

“I said if they need help, in case there’s an emergency, I will be on call.”

“So will us.”

“Yes, but we’re working on two different things at the same time now, aren’t we?”

It’s not an accusation – her voice is soft, _comprehensive_ even, a tone of mulled resignation, almost amused defeat, her eyes understanding –, but Tony feels a razor blade slice through him anyway, guilt seeping in like lava slipping through the cracks, melting from the inside.

“We can do both at the same time” Pepper offers, gently. “While I can help down here, I will. And you can help upstairs.”

Upstairs, where Barton is. Where Natasha, Nebula, Rocket, Bruce, and Thor are. Where the dangerous idea Tony planted might be taking seed, where his workshop is, where FRIDAY can pull up schematics and they can discuss it. Away from Pepper.

It’s happening, isn’t it?

(It is.)

(God, it’s happening again.)

_Fuck._

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Tony asks, miserably, though he knows the answer will not make him feel better – he knows what this is now.

(He has lived this moment many times before.)

(He can recognize it when it comes.)

“I told FRIDAY you needed to sleep. And you did.” Pepper sweetly says, her eyes understanding. “It’s okay, we have it handled.”

“I’m gonna help you.” Tony argues anyway, but his voice is weak.

“Tony.” Pepper says, in that tone – that _sad_ , a little frustrated, full of _heartache_ tone, that makes Tony’s chest seize with a terrible dread, a sense of urgency that something bad is coming, that the words that will follow won’t be anything but painful. “They need you upstairs.”

“You need me here, too.” Tony hastily reminds her. “You said you need engineers. I am an engineer, and I’m staying.”

“No.” Pepper softly interrupts, placing a hand on his wrist. “You need to go upstairs. Thor said he would be back soon. They’re gonna need you there.”

Tony almost asks her what the hell Thor has anything to do with this, when he suddenly remembers that Thor was supposed to go after the guy who _built the Gauntlet_ this morning, and he’s going to have news when he comes back – whether they are good or bad.

“What about you?” He insists.

“I’ll be fine.” Pepper assures him. “I’ll do what I can to get those R&D guys with the equipment they need, and we’ll ask FRIDAY for any help if we need to. I’ll help Agent Ross and Agent Carter on comms. I won’t go out there unless they call, and if they do, I’ll let you know.”

Tony hesitates.

“If you need me—”

“I’ll call.” Pepper smiles, just a little fake, but that is more than enough for Tony’s chest to feel like it’s caving in on itself, like shrapnel forcing its way into his sternum all over again.

It never hurts any less.

No matter how many times it happens. How many times they find themselves in this moment, right here, over and over again; When they realize they’re in a tightrope that neither of them can cross, because they’re both too scared to move to each other’s side, or too stubborn, or too different to see each other’s path. So committed to finding safe ground on their own sides. They hold their hands out but the gap between them is too big, and no matter how hard they reach, even when they brush hands, even when they’re close enough to touch – the instinct to turn around and go back to their safe places is too strong, rooted too deep into both of them to allow them to take the leap.

They pull and tug. They bend. Sometimes it gets stronger…

But never strong enough.

It’s always painful, to realize the rope is giving. That it’ll unravel and drop them both, if they don’t retreat. The weight is too heavy. Crushing guilt, unspoken secrets, too much conflict. An entire universe on their shoulders. It always comes down to this. To a point where the pressure becomes too much, and whatever weaving of connection they tangled between them is not enough to hold them together, as Tony sinks in, as Pepper tries to pull him out and Tony just keeps being pulled down by forces he cannot shake.

It’ll pull until it snaps, if one of them doesn’t let go.

This is Pepper, testing the tug. Pepper is twisting the rope in her hands, uncertain, hesitating between pulling closer or letting it slip through her fingers.

(But Tony knows how this goes.)

Tony sighs, deep and broken, and lowers his head to stare at the ground, _hating_ how exposed he feels in this moment. How _easy_ it is for them to break, after all these years.

They’re not broken _yet._

But they will be.

( _Same old song and dance_.)

“C’mon.” Rhodey says in a gentle mutter, giving him a supportive pat on the shoulder, his eyes terribly _knowing._ “Thor will be back soon.”

Tony takes in a shuddering breath, raises his head, swallows back down all the shrieks and screams and pleas he has roaring inside, letting them die suffocated between the spaces beneath his ribs, and nods.

“I’ll see you later.” Pepper affirms in a whisper, her eyes locked onto his, so he cannot twist her words into anything other than what they are. A kind promise. Truth. “Okay? Call me if you need me.”

“Yeah.” Tony replies in a choked mutter. “I will. You too, Pep, okay? I’ll see you later.”

_I love you._

_I love you, you know that, right?_ , he wants to say.

He doesn’t.

Pepper’s eyes linger on his for one more second, one long, drawn-out moment, a stretch of time they’re both stealing in a way, like young lovers who can’t win against the world that tries to keep them apart, but then Pepper breaks the connection, and turns away in a slow, careful movement, before heading towards the agents to discuss the addition of their communication devices to FRIDAY’s systems.

Tony stands there, for a moment.

He doesn’t know if he should go after her.

He doesn’t know he if he can.

Outside, somewhere amongst the grey clouds and the cold, the cutting wind and the vast silence, a thunder roars.

“Boss.” FRIDAY calls from a single speaker nearby, not too loud, but still sudden enough that it rips Tony off his numbness like a band-aid being ripped, stinging across his skin. “Mr. Odinson is back.”

“Yeah, got that.” Tony coughs, throat feeling strained. “Thanks, FRI.”

Tony sees from the corner of his eye Rhodey throws him a concerned glance, but only give out a soft sigh and head back towards the elevator, with a low _let’s go, Tony_ muttered under his breath. Tony turns to follow him, not allowing himself to think too hard on the fact that he is doing this, he is leaving Pepper here with the agents to head upstairs and greet Thor, to see if his crazy idea has any chance of working, if he can put his life on the line for this shot that’s not even certain to pay off; And only when he turns he realizes Rogers is _standing there_ , right behind him, listening to everything that has just happened.

_Oh, goody._

The last thing Tony needed today. Shit, his neck _burns_ with shame.

Rogers doesn’t say anything. He stares at Tony for a moment, eyes a little too wide and mouth a little too tight, shoulders tense and body locked in what almost looks like anticipation, like he’s holding back something and he’s only waiting for Tony to move to retaliate – but then suddenly, he goes lax, shoulders slumping and brows scrunching in a deep frown, jaw ticking with the force of his grinding teeth.

Tony has no idea what he’s thinking.

And though he can’t help but be mortified by Rogers listening in to the absolute disaster that has just happened here, he will not mention it with Rogers. He won’t.

He won’t do this to himself.

“Barton is upstairs.” Tony says instead, in a whisper, voice tight between the tense muscles in his throat. He’s not sure if Rogers knows this. He probably does, but Tony feels the need to say it anyway. Though he’s also not sure what Rogers could possibly do about it, if there’s even anything to be _done_ ; Tony just… Tony just doesn’t know how to deal with Barton right now, so maybe he should let Rogers handle it. Make himself scarce and let them talk between them.

Tony knows that whatever words he could offer for the guy would probably fall on deaf ears anyway.

“I know.” Rogers replies, equally low, his voice rough even as a hushing breath. “Natasha asked me to give them some alone time.”

“Is he staying here?”

“It would probably be the best thing.” Rogers says in a surprisingly gentle tone, not at all the forceful command that Tony has come to associate with him over time. “If you think he could stay.”

Tony looks at him.

Tony looks at him, and Rogers looks back, and Tony thinks he might actually have stopped breathing for a moment. His entire body goes stiff as stone, a sharp lightning of _something_ going down his spine in a fraction of a second; A dreadful, overtaking feeling of _self-awareness_ of how close they are standing, of how – how Rogers simply went along his stupid commentary and whispered back, how his _eyes_ are so weirdly _sharp_ , but not in a – in an _aggressive way_. Rogers looks at him like he can see past his skin, into his soul, like he has something he’s trying to say without opening his mouth, and it makes the hairs on Tony’s arms stand on edge because he doesn’t _know_ what Rogers wants.

All the memories Tony has of Rogers seem to be tainted, somehow. Tony doesn’t know what is real and what is a product of the mess between them that spilled like a cup of coffee shattering on the floor, black liquid spreading through the cracks to stain everything that touches, to drown even the sweetest of things in bitterness.

Tony is not sure what Rogers _wants_ anymore. His memories – his previous idea of who Rogers is was clearly not that accurate, so he’s not sure if the way he is reading this is any more correct than before.

Rogers is _asking him_ if Barton can stay. Tony doesn’t even know _why_ – _he_ didn’t ask to stay. Natasha didn’t ask to stay. They just _did._

“I don’t think he should be alone.” Tony says, truthfully, because he doesn’t. “So, I guess so. You and Natasha seem to be staying.”

Tony is not sure how exactly those words sound when they leave his mouth, but from the look on Rogers’ face, it probably doesn’t sound like he thinks they did. Rogers’ neck goes back a little, his eyes going hard and his mouth twisting in what looks like a very painful grind of his teeth, so quick that Tony can’t even feel his defensive instincts kick in before Rogers’ expression goes a little slack again, covered in a muted sadness that Tony can see from the crease of his eyebrows, before he says:

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable because of us.”

And for once, Tony does not feel any impulse to laugh or scorn or doubt his statement.

For some reason, Tony thinks Rogers might actually be saying the truth.

“If you want us to go, we’ll go.” Rogers says, in a way that manages to sound both earnest and wounded, until he quickly amends, a little more firmly, “We still want to fight, Tony. Whatever plan you have to get rid of Thanos, we will help you. We’re not going to ignore this.”

“I know.” Tony says, and he’s surprised to find out that he means it.

He does know. He does know this about Rogers: _he will always fight_.

Tony tries not to think too hard on how deeply he feels the veracity of this fact.

“But if you’d feel better if we left. If we stayed somewhere else…” Rogers finishes in a mutter. “We wouldn’t mind.”

The words almost don’t compute in his mind. For a second, Tony can’t feel anything but the purest form of _appalment_ at this completely ridiculous idea.

“And where the hell would you go?” Tony asks, with a little too much scorn. He’s not even sure what makes him angrier. If it’s the softness in Rogers’ voice, or the burning, earnest look in his eyes, or the ridiculousness of his statement, or the _presumption_ of his effect on Tony. Or the uselessness of it. Maybe the fact that he _doesn’t_ have a choice, in the first place. Because he doesn’t. Even if Tony wasn’t fine with them staying at the Compound, which he _is_ , he is _fine_ with it, sort of – what other option do they have?

“That’s not the point.” Rogers answers, completely dodging the question.

“That’s not an answer.” Tony hisses, squinting at him.

It’s so – so frustratingly familiar. Rogers’ evasiveness. Tony knows what Rogers is trying to do, and maybe, some other time, in some other circumstance, he’d be glad about it. Maybe! At least Rogers isn’t _unaware_ of how the things between them were left, isn’t ignorant to the fact that Tony is avoiding staying alone with him, or trying to think too hard on anything that picks too hard at a wound that’s not healed, but this _kindness_ is not… It doesn’t _help_ now.

“Tony.” Rogers says, far too intense, far too _much_ for Tony to handle right now. “You have the right to not want me here.”

_Me._

Not _us._

_Me._

“It’s fine.”, Tony curtly says.

“But if it wasn’t—”

“If it wasn’t,” Tony interrupts. “If I told you to go, would you?”

Rogers hesitates, but then, equally terse, says:

“Yes.”

_Yes._

( _Yes._ )

“Then you can stop questioning me if I say it’s fine and you can stay.”

Rogers frowns, but doesn’t disagree.

“There’s no point in separating.” Tony admits, if a bit begrudgingly. “We can’t _win_ this separated.”

And it’s true. Rogers knows it’s true.

What’s the point in separating now? That’s exactly why they’re in this situation to begin with – they weren’t together, and they weren’t ready.

Their petty fights don’t matter anymore now. It’s together or nothing.

They either work together, or they die.

It’s easier to focus on that.

“Guys.” Rhodey calls from behind Rogers, very cautiously, and Tony would feel a little uncomfortable with how obvious it is that Rhodey was waiting for a chance to interrupt them without setting off any of them into a rage fit, but he’s keyed up enough that he can only feel grateful for Rhodey’s peaceful intervention. “Thor is waiting for us. C’mon.”

Tony throws one last look at Rogers, feeling on edge that Rogers just stares back, like he’s trying to make Tony understand something that Tony just can’t read, because he can’t read Rogers’ fucking mind and he has no idea what kind of game he’s trying to play here.

If – If Rogers is trying to get close again, that won’t happen. It won’t, Tony can’t do that anymore. That – _partnership_ , if they could even call it that? That old bickering teammates dynamic, the joking banter, the push and pull? That’s gone. They blasted through the limits so terribly Tony no longer trusts them enough to explode when in close proximity, much less to try and gain some resemblance of what it used to be before. Neither of them, Rogers, or himself. He said he can’t do that. He can’t do this _I thought I was your friend_ thing all over again, and he needs to remind himself of that.

Tony has been forced to do worse than to house an unwilling business partner. Or unwanted. Whatever. Semantics. Tony really doesn’t care Rogers is sleeping under his roof, it’s not like they’re sharing a bed. Once was enough of that. Whatever Rogers does when he disappears when the sun goes down, that is not Tony’s concern anymore, and he _won’t_ make it his concern.

He can stay, Tony told him. So can Barton, and Natasha, and the others. They can stay.

What else on Earth could Rogers possibly _want_ from him?

Tony walks away, pretending he’s not hyper aware of the sound of Rogers’ steps echoing behind him, twin beats against the floor, as they both follow Rhodey out and proceed to have the most awkward ride of their lives; The three of them dead silent in the enclosed space, pretending they’re not aching with the instincts to shift and move to try to dispel some of the suffocating stuffiness of the elevator.

As subtle as they can – which is to say, probably not at all – Tony leans his head and seeks Rhodey’s eyes, only to find them already directed at him.

He looks concerned.

 _Are you okay?_ , he asks, needing nothing more than his gaze and a twitch of his eyebrows for Tony to hear the words, and the relief he feels at the old familiarity of Rhodey’s presence is as warm as a memory of summer, of laughs and metal, of _brotherhood._

Tony aches for simpler times.

For simpler… _everything._

He makes a lazy gesture with his neck, his head swaying to the side a little, eyes fluttering in a tired expression. _Nevermind_ , it says. _Not worth it._

Rhodey’s frown grows a little deeper, but when Tony offers him no other opening, he accepts it, and turns back to the front.

Tony is so grateful to have Rhodey in his side.

The elevator reaches the entrance floor with a smooth movement, a noise so sleek when the doors open to allow them passage that it’s almost inaudible. They don’t need to go far. They find Thor standing on the entrance lobby, halfway to Natasha, who is standing by the lounge’s entrance with a look in her face that seems a little too scared, a little too distressed, and Tony nearly asks her why out loud, before he realizes that in his hand, the one that’s not holding the axe, Thor, in his armor, just standing there in the middle of the lobby, has an enormous _gauntlet_ in his grasp.

Not Thanos’.

But _a_ gauntlet.

Suddenly it’s like he has been stabbed again.

“Thor, buddy.” Tony exhales in a winded breath. “Please tell me that giant gauntlet in your hand means good news.”

But Tony doesn’t need Thor to say a word to know it does not.

“Eitri is gone.” Thor says, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I couldn’t find him.”

They all stay stiffly still, too uncomfortable to know how to react to Thor’s revelation, too scared by the idea that the guy who supposedly was the only one who could help them build a replica of Thanos’ Gauntlet had suddenly disappeared – with far too great chances of being another victim to the decimation.

Was the guy Thor’s close friend? Tony doesn’t know.

Did he have anyone to mourn for him?

Thor had said he’d been the last of his kind.

( _Extinction._ )

“All I could do is bring this back.” Thor raises the enormous gauntlet a bit, calling attention to it. “The mold he had in his forge. It’s not made of the same material, I don’t think, but it was all I could bring with me. Figured it would be better than nothing.”

“Thanks anyway, big guy.” Tony awkwardly says, his lips twisting in discomfort. “I’m sorry. For your friend.”

“He wasn’t really my friend, he was…” Thor tries to explain, but his words get lost in the space between them all, dissolving into nothingness, with just a faraway look in his mismatched eyes as proof that something inside him is holding a grief he cannot properly explain with words.

“Did he have anyone?” Tony asks, shyly.

Thor hesitates. “No. I don’t think so.”

They all pause.

“Thor, if you need some time—” Natasha suggests, incredibly kind.

“No, no.” Thor insists, and they all politely ignore how gruff his voice sounds, far more than normal. “We should continue. We have the gauntlet, there’s no reason to waste any time.”

“Still.” Rogers says. “Thank you, Thor. We’ll do what we can to work with this.”

“Let’s bring it to the workshop. FRI, call everyone.” Tony says. “I want to see what we’re dealing with here.”

He hesitates when he goes to move, because stepping forward means stepping closer to Thor, and as soon as he does, Thor brings up his hand and _offers_ the damned thing to him, for him to grasp it, to hold it, as if that what was Tony intended to do by getting closer. It _wasn’t._ He’d just meant to lead them to the workshop. But there it is, in Thor’s hand, extended to him, and Tony fumbles in his steps before his body can properly obey the command his brain gives it to _stop_ , and for a second—

That feels like an entire _lifetime_ —

He stands there, before a god, with a replica of the Infinity Gauntlet in his hands, giving it to Tony.

(Tony doesn’t like to be handed things.)

“No, you can hold that.” Tony babbles a little hysterically. “You hold it. Bring it to the workshop, c’mon, let’s go.”

A strange look crosses Thor’s face, something that almost looks like pain, but Tony ignores it. He won’t give himself time to freak about it – It’s not even the real _thing._ It’s a replica. A non-functional replica. Even if Tony doesn’t want to hold it, there’s no reason to let the feeling of his skin crawling get out of control.

He knows by the sounds of footsteps that the others are following him, and he leads them through the side stairs, just because they are faster and give him an excuse to move instead of going back to the elevator, and he tries to gain some sense of familiarity and security on the way.

When they reach the workshop and the doors open, he damn near succeeds.

God, Tony missed being in a workshop.

This one has no cars, no art pieces, and no SI blueprints and schematics – this workshop had been designed with the Avengers in mind, to supply the Compound with whatever tech necessary Tony could provide. Of course, the lower floors had an R&D department, probably the labs Pepper would guide the agents downstairs to, when she… when she had time. While she helped Agents Carter and Ross. But this, this workshop – This is _Tony’s_ and Tony’s only, a realm of creation Tony once wished Bruce could have shared with him, a place where he could bring to life things that would help the Avengers keep the world safe.

A dream never fulfilled.

They seem almost naïve, now.

Thor seems all too eager to lay the gauntlet mockup on top of a table, at full display of everyone, stepping back almost immediately to watch it from a bit further away. His eyes are trained on it like a cat would watch a dog, waiting for it to pounce. Some follow him more closely than the others, eyeing the Gauntlet with varying degrees of curiosity, hesitancy, and discomfort. They are still shuffling about when Bruce, Nebula and Rocket barge in, in quick strides – until they see the thing on the table and almost trip over one another.

“Is that—?” Nebula asks, choked.

“A replica.” Tony assures her.

“Did the big guy…?” Rocket asks Thor, concerned, and Thor only shakes his head. It’s _pitiful,_ to see how the raccoon turns so _sad_ all of a sudden.

Nebula brushes a hand on Rocket’s shoulder, a touch so soft it only barely ruffles the fur, and ushers him forward so they both step closer, entering their circle around the gauntlet, all of them staring at it warily.

“Barton?” Tony asks Natasha, just to be sure.

Natasha shrugs, jerkily.

Tony decides not to press it.

“FRIDAY, dear, scan this for us.” “I want all possible details you can find on this thing.”

“Right away.” FRIDAY complies, but even as she’s still running the scans, Tony’s brain starts to fire in a thousand directions at once, theories and possibilities firing up like fireworks, his own eyes making a quick assessment of the replica up close.

“It’s obviously not the same material.” He thinks out loud, scratching his chin just so he can have something to do with his hand. “So we’ll need to find something similar to replace it.”

Bruce puts on glasses, glasses Tony has no idea where he got from, and steps closer, squinting at the gauntlet. “Did you get close enough to look?”

“Close enough to _touch_.” Tony growls, frustrated. “But still couldn’t get it off him.”

“This metal, wasn’t there any of it in his place, along with the mold for this?” Rogers asks Thor off to the side, pointing to the gauntlet prototype.

“Each metal in Nidavellir is unique.” Thor explains. “Different properties, different spells carved into it. No two weapons forged are the same.”

“That’s not good news, buddy.” Natasha mumbles, but mostly to herself.

“I myself don’t know exactly what Stormbreaker is made of.” Thor admits. “It’s different from my hammer. Different magic. I had to hold the star open myself, so the metal would melt, but it’s possible other magical components had been added to it before we arrived.”

“Hold on, did you just say the _star_?”

“Nidavellir is a forge powered by the heart of a dying star.” Rocket informs them, crossing his arms, as if the mere knowledge of this fact fills him with inexplicable pride.

“You’re saying that _this_ —” Bruce points to Thor’s axe, and then to the gauntlet, “—and _this_ , were forged with the power of a star?”

“That’s right.”

“Great.” Bruce says, making very clear it’s not great at all.

“It had to be something strong enough to hold six Infinity Stones.” Nebula reminds them, voice gruff. “Not only when they were just there, but also when he used them. The Gauntlet has to be just as powerful.”

“The original material is an ancient metal, called Uru.” Thor explains, with the familiarity of someone who has heard or told this tale a thousand times before. “The Dwarves where the only ones skilled enough to use it. It had many forms, but they are all equal in one way: their ability to withstand grand power and magic, without coming apart.”

“Yeah, we gathered that.” Bruce grumbles. “But how do we recreate something like that? _Here?_ ”

“We’ll find something.” Tony affirms. “And if we don’t, we’ll create something.”

“We’ll also need to find a way to _steal_ the Stones from him.” Natasha reminds them. “Which means creating something strong enough to hold him while we get them.”

“And make sure he can’t use them against us while we’re trying to get close.” Rogers amends.

“Can’t use nothing if he’s dead.” Rhodey complains to himself, and Rocket gives him an approving look, shrugging.

“Man’s got a point.”

He does, but not the most efficient strategy.

“We’ll start from the basics.” Tony leads. “Infinity Stones. What do we know?”

“There are six Infinity Stones, ever since the creation of the Universe.” Thor drawls, the same way Tony imagines prophets or storytellers of myths to speak, voice dragged by memories of things too vast and too ancient for others to comprehend.

“We don’t know what they _are,_ or what they are _made of_.” Bruce shrugs forcefully, a little edge of panic bleeding into his voice. “What we do know, from princess Shuri’s scans, is that they are polymorphic. Something in them doesn’t follow normal laws of matter, like what we found in the scepter, so they possibly can change form, too.”

“All of them?” Thor asks, with a furrowed brow.

“Yes? I’m assuming?” Bruce replies confusedly. “Why?”

“I once encountered one of the other Stones.” Thor says. “The Reality Stone, also known as the Aether. Jane found it, in a gap between worlds, where it was hidden. It was strange, it was… It was not solid.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was fluid. Couldn’t be held, couldn’t be destroyed. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” Thor explains, with a faraway tone. “The only way to contain it was to use a proper structure that could hold it. Free, it would only bring chaos.”

“Wait, isn’t that the thing you said you were trying to get back a few years ago? The one your girlfriend got attacked by?” Tony recalls in a surprised jolt, a memory stirring in his mind, from a long time ago, from a certain point in time he can’t quite pinpoint right.

“The attack in London.” Tony knows he’s not crazy when Rogers _confirms it_ with his question, also associating this information with a tale of a fight Thor shared with them years ago, before Ultron, before it all fell apart.

“I didn’t know it was an Infinity Stone then.” Thor justifies. “Magic, even magic as powerful as the Aether had seemed, is not unheard of in Asgard. My father… My father had many things hidden across the universe, in an attempt to protect our people from getting close to it, or to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands. Chances are some of them won’t be discovered in thousands of years, if they ever are. I had no way of knowing the Aether was something more.”

And when he puts it like that, he has a point. Godly father, all too powerful, probably a little too overprotective of his things? Tony can imagine Odin being the kind of guy who you hide his toys in the darkest places in the universe, in the hope no one would find them.

But Christ, that had been in 2013. How _long_ have they been chasing this without realizing?

“I knew the Aether was dangerous.” Thor admits, with a twinge of sorrow. “I had no idea how much.”

“That goes for any of them, Thor.” Bruce offers, his face soft with sympathy.

“They have to be protected.” Thor continues, trying to steel himself a little more by returning to a more analytical approach. “They were hidden, and they have to be contained, even when not in use. They are too powerful to even be free into the world. Even the Aether, that was not… a _Stone_ , exactly, had a box of sorts, a protection that would keep it stored and safe.”

Nebula’s back straightens a little, as if struck with sudden realization. “When my sister was sent to track the Power Stone, she was told to look for something called the Orb. A protective barrier, between the Infinity Stone, and those who owned it.”

“The Space Stone was hidden inside the Tesseract.” Thor informs, to the clear surprise of all. “And the Mind Stone—”

“Inside the scepter.” Tony breathes, the electric feeling of understanding washing through him in a thrilling pulse, adrenaline pumping in his veins. “FRIDAY, pull up my notes on Loki’s scepter and the Stone. Also any information you have on the 2012 attack, Ultron, and Vision.”

Tony can see a tiny flinch wreck through Natasha and Rogers at the mention of Vision – or Ultron, who knows –, but it’s the shudder and the lowering of Thor’s gaze that strikes him as odd, and Tony frowns, but can’t be sure if he should ask or not what that meant.

Rogers moves closer, restlessness clear in his posture. “What about the others?”

“Strange also had one.” Bruce informs them. “The thing he wore. His necklace, or whatever that was. It was a container for the Stone, the Time Stone.”

“ _Wong._ ” Tony exclaims. “Do we have any info on Wong? Do we know if he made it?”

“He stayed behind to protect the Sanctum.” Bruce says. “Haven’t heard from him since.”

“FRI, find him. If he’s still here, we might need him to learn more about the Stones.”

FRIDAY chips in with an agreement, but the conversation is already barreling through her voice, hasty and full of anticipation, all of them too anxious to halt the subject now.

Rocket’s eyes scan the room, going over them one by one, before asking, in a cautious tone:

“What about the last one? Does anyone know anything about it?”

There’s a pause. No one replies for a long, suffocating second.

Tony’s eyes fall to Nebula on instinct.

She looks small.

“The Soul Stone.” She says, and all eyes snap to her, like ravenous beasts at the sight of scraps, too eager to hear information about this Stone none of them have ever encountered – until the look in her face comes into focus, and they all sober up instantly, like a bucket of ice water has been doused on them. “Only my sister knew where it was. It had been hidden since the beginning of time. All I know is that Thanos forced her to tell him, and he took her with him to find the Stone. When he came back… She wasn’t with him.”

The silence that falls upon them is oppressing.

Rocket is the one to offer her comfort this time. He doesn’t put a hand on her shoulder, but he steps closer, close enough that he can brush against her a little, silent companionship, and Nebula shifts her weight to her other leg so she can stay close, unknowingly or not.

Her sister.

Thanos’ daughter.

(Her _family._ )

Tony feels too awkward to step closer and offer her comfort, but he’s sort of glad to see her and Rocket press close to one another, to seek support. Tony had assumed Gamora had been Nebula’s only family, and that she had never been close to the other so-called Guardians of the Galaxy as she’d been to her sister, but seeing this – Tony might’ve been wrong. Or maybe not, but _grief_ has put whatever trouble they had between them in the past.

At least.

He hoped so.

They can’t be alone now. None of them can.

They have to find comfort however they can. In whoever they can.

They need to be together to survive this.

A beat passes, two, three – the air in the room settles, weighted by dread but frizzling with determination, with the impulse to right this wrong, to wipe away the sorrow that has drowned them.

( _Together._ )

“We’ll get them back.” Tony tells her, tells them, tells himself.

And he’s going to make it true.

He’s going to make it happen.

They all stare at him, they all see his determination, his relentless drive, and Tony can tell they want to believe him, they are _starting_ to believe him, and _good._ Because they will. They will make this work. He can feel it in his bones, it _echoes_ in his soul.

Rogers steps closer, almost side to side with Tony, and Tony lets him.

Tony lets him, at least this time.

This one last time.

( _Together._ )

“We need all the information we can get on those things. Make sure we’re not missing anything. Especially something that might get us killed.” Rogers says, but there is no fear in his voice. Only conviction. Only certainty.

They are going to make this happen.

“Let’s walk through everything we know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gonna get a little nerdy in the next one, folks. I hope you like that, because I'll probably have way too much fun with it! Let's hope I don't completely lose control over my word count again. 
> 
> Pepper, we're reaching the end of your arc. Not quite there yet, but soon. And together with some plot, we'll transition from her piece to the next one in line, a special arc that's going to include more than one character at once. You'll see what I mean when we get there. 
> 
> For now, I hope you enjoyed it! Thank you for reading, and remember, my twitter and tumblr are always open to you guys, and if you like my writing, consider checking out the pinned post in my twitter, you might be interested in that!
> 
> See you next time, friends :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going down a memory lane for this one. Believe me, we're gonna need it.
> 
> The clues for the final conflict in the Infinity Saga had been floating around for a very, very long time. Often we forget how long, I think. The funny thing about scattering pieces across the road for someone else to find is that you can't forget those pieces will fit a whole when they're all found. A puzzle piece rarely serves a purpose if it doesn't add to the full picture - so the full picture should always be in your mind. Even if the puzzle takes a decade to come together. You still need it to fit, when the time comes.
> 
> Because someone might try to put them side by side and see what picture they form. If they make sense, if compared. And that's exactly what we're gonna do. 
> 
> First things first: gather all the information. Or, most of the information. We can only work with what we have at hand, so we need to know what's in stock; And we'll build our picture from there. We'll see what's useful and what's a problem, what's a coincidence and what's a pattern, and what sort of incredibly valuable information we might have missed just because it was never necessary before. There's gonna be a lot. I'm not gonna give you the shortened, already filtered version, no - I'm taking you down this road through the same path or heroes will have to go through, like you and I are just two other people in that room, and no one is coming to help us. We'll figure this out the old fashioned way. Tony is a scientist - I couldn't possibly not give him the chance to do what he does best, now, could I?
> 
> You're more than welcome to throw in a theory or two in the comments section, if you want. Considering the fact that Carol won't be here to help, and no information from Ant-Man and Wasp can be used, I'd like to know if you have any idea how could this possibly be solved. You guys don't have to be shy! I'm sure you know by now I have a lot of fun debating theories and meta with you guys - you are free to share your ideas with me if you'd like! I'd love to hear what you think. 
> 
> There's a lot of information in this one, folks. Grab a pen an paper if you wanna. Maybe when this is all over, I'll show you my own annotations for this fic - and they are long, not gonna lie aksjdhajksfhkjasf Maybe it would be interesting to see what you guys think about it!
> 
> We're gonna have even more information on the next one too, so get ready. But we can start with our theories right away, if we'd like!
> 
> We have more than enough content, I will tell you that. You can see it for yourself.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter, everybody <3

The board goes like so:

There’s a huge projection in the far back wall, a blue hologram that FRIDAY projects large enough that it bathes the entire room in its hue, electric and encompassing, brightness sharp and hypnotic before their eyes. It reflects against the light countertops and workstations, the clean, minimalistic design of the almost bare floors and walls, but barely gleaming against the dull metal of the mockup gauntlet that rests on the table; They watch it, transfixed, almost unblinking, as they gather before it like subjects before their deity – in fear and determination, in challenge of its threats, when an image of a familiar glowing cube presents itself right in the middle of the panel, almost like a mockery, the main star presenting itself for the show.

The image mimics the flickering of the light at its core, the constant swirling of energy beneath the smooth surface of the blue cube, and with it, almost like an illusion, the projection board gives the barest of flickers, as if it could feel its power from the image alone.

It sends shivers down the spine.

“We’ll start with that one.” Tony exhales, steeling himself for the mental and emotional strain that he is sure is about to come.

“Schmidt found the Tesseract in Norway in 1942.” Rogers says, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed in concentration. “He and Zola used the power in it to make weapons to HYDRA.”

FRIDAY adjusts the projection almost immediately – the Tesseract becomes a miniature, much easier to manipulate, and it gets pushed to the left when a horizontal line cuts through the board like a spear, the number _1942_ gaining a mark in faint, glowing digits. Beneath it, the additional information gets linked: _Norway, Johann Schmidt, Arnim Zola_.

 _Norway_ provides no clarification, but the names that follow do. FRIDAY immediately puts up two profiles, both of them with miniatures Tony instantly recognizes as SHIELD’s threat reports, both with a glaring red skull with tentacles beside their pictures, indicating their association with HYDRA. The name Johann Schmidt brings him no surprise – everyone knows who Captain America’s biggest enemy is, _was_ , they have all read the comics and visited the museums – but the second one _Arnim Zola_ , itches in Tony’s brain for some reason he can’t place, the nagging feeling of having something he needs to grasp that is just out of his reach.

But that’s for later. The reports too. They’ll have to read the weapons report to see what they found, what kind of crazy stuff HYDRA was messing with in their basement in the forties. And how far they got with what they had.

“What was it doing in Norway in the first place?” Bruce asks, his brows furrowing curiously, hands wringing in discomfort.

“I don’t know.” Rogers admits.

“It is said that the Tesseract was once of my father’s treasures.” Thor interjects softly, swaying a little in his place, as if he’s not sure what position he should take. “If it was no longer in the vault, it’s because he took it out of there on purpose. He probably hid it on Earth himself.”

“Yes, but _why_ Norway?”

“He seemed to be fond of the place.” Thor says, extremely sorrowful for some reason. “It’s the only explanation I can think of.”

“Okay, we’ll put a pin on that.” Tony presses, not allowing the conversation to stray too far. “No other register of it before then?”

“Not that we know of.” Rogers confirms.

“So our timeline starts in ’42.” Tony repeats, for his own comforting’s sake. “During the war, it got lost in the water, my dad found it, and brought it back to the SSR.”

“Which then turns into SHIELD.” Natasha continues.

“And they use it in Project PEGASUS.” Barton confirms.

Barton – _Barton_?

They turn around, surprised, and yes, it was – _Barton_ , leaning against the door of the workshop, muscles so tense and taught Tony can almost see the outline through his shirt, from where he crosses his arms in a self-defensive posture that’s far too strained to be comforting.

He looks older. Older than Tony remembered him. Too old, too tired for his age.

Tony hadn’t expected to see him. He though – Well, he didn’t think anything. Maybe that Barton had gone back. Or hidden in one of the rooms. Maybe Natasha’s room. To grieve in silence. Tony would have understood that. Maybe that would be the more reasonable solution, to grieve, and not to… do whatever they are doing here. Not to push, not to volunteer to throw himself back into the fire because he’d prefer to burn than to move on. Tony had assumed, maybe, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Barton had really tapped out. That the farm and the civilian life had finally gotten to him, and he’d refuse to step inside the danger zone again. That he finally had enough. Losing family can do that to a man.

But maybe not.

Maybe the guy… Maybe he wants to be a soldier.

(Maybe he’s not scared of dying for this.)

(Maybe he already has.)

Well.

Tony won’t say no.

Not this time.

“Sorry.” Barton says, not sounding exactly sorry. “I decided to let myself in.”

They regard him in careful silence, waiting patiently as Barton pushes off the wall and approaches in slow, almost sluggish steps, to join them in the line before the board. Rogers turns to him, with a curt nod, and when Barton nods back, even if his mouth is pressed in a tight, bitter line, Rogers asks:

“What do you know of this PEGASUS thing?”

“Not much.” Barton admits, with a half-hearted shrug. “Only that Fury was trying to do something that he clearly wasn’t ready to face yet. Selvig was in it too, and a bunch of other scientists. But even then, they figured it worked for some sort of portal-opening device. When Loki attacked, they’d been trying to open it from our side, until Loki opened from his’.”

“Do you know when this project was initiated?”

“No clue.” Barton raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Is that important?”

“Zola was the one who helped HYDRA infiltrate SHIELD. He was the first recruit of Operation Paperclip.” Rogers says pointedly and – _oh._

_Operation Paperclip. Of course._

Tony remembers the guy _now._

  1. The Triskelion. The data dump. HYDRA inside SHIELD.



Arnim _fucking_ Zola. The itch at the back of Tony’s brain, suddenly, becomes a headache.

“If he had access to the Tesseract, he certainly would have been making tests on it.” Rogers states.

“SHIELD records state Dr. Zola died in 1972.” FRIDAY swiftly informs, precise and direct, enlarging the picture of the scientist to draw attention to it, and she brings up a cutout from what looks like the scan of a medical report, stating Zola died in November of 1972, of lung cancer.

Beside it, she makes a marker for _Project PEGASUS_ , with some information she immediately starts to collect from the data available from SHIELD’s leak, and after no more than two seconds, the file slides away from Zola’s picture, connecting it to a mark in the timeline, with no link to the Doctor whatsoever; below the number _1980_. “And according to the SHIELD decrypted files released by Agent Romanov, Project PEGASUS was initiated in the eighties.”

That seems to bring some relief to Rogers, who sighs softly and drops his shoulders, but the effect this information has on Tony is completely opposite.

Tony knows something about that, too.

“My father.” Tony suddenly says, a flash of recognition snapping in him. “He worked on PEGASUS when it was launched. It was around the time the Expo was canceled. He had notes on the Tesseract—”

Tony stops.

He stops, and he _remembers._

He remembers despair and resignation, chest pains and short breaths, sleepless nights and recklessness. The burning of alcohol and loss. Of rotations, fire capacity, chemistry, and coconut and metal.

(The Arc Reactor.)

(The Arc Reactor is Tesseract-based tech.)

“Son of a bitch.” Tony mutters, feeling like the ground beneath him is trembling in an earthquake only he can feel, his knees trembling with the pulse of something that threatens to bring him down, muscles weak and bones frail, a rush of cold adrenaline pumping through his veins like his blood is being frozen as it runs through his body.

“What’s wrong?” Rhodey asks, alarmed.

Tony unconsciously brings his hand to his chest, fingers grazing the surface of the glass of his nanite compartment, as if an absent-minded caress. He can almost feel the soft vibrations of the nanites moving inside it.

(In his chest.)

(It has been in his chest all along.)

“The Reactor.” Tony explains, in a winded exhale. “The one in the factory, and the one I miniaturized. It was all based on the notes he took on the Tesseract.”

They stare at him, aghast, all eyes dropping to the glowing shine of the reactor in his chest, resting easy over his heart, as if to protect it. _Exactly_ for that reason. To protect it.

Tony had forgotten about this detail.

He feels like he might throw up.

“I modified it, after a while.” He says, both to their comfort and his own, to keep himself following a logic, following memories of numbers and equations, not – not even for one _second_ allowing himself to think he has tech based on an _Infinity Stone_ attached to his body, to his entire self, at this very moment. “The original plans involved a palladium core, but it wasn’t effective, and it was…”

“Poisonous.” Natasha completes, with not much gentleness in her voice.

Tony’s teeth click together when his mouth snaps shut, feeling his neck burn with the uncomfortable sensation of both Natasha and Rhodey staring at him with too knowing eyes, and all he can say is a soft _yes_ in acknowledgment of Natasha’s reply.

“But you made it work.” Rogers insists, with an inquiring eyebrow raised. “You fixed it.”

“It was too big.” Tony recalls, as if it was yesterday, as if Yinsen is no more than a few steps behind him and the cave is humid and cold around him, as if it’s the same night when Tony stayed awake for hours thinking and thinking and _thinking_ , to figure out the problem, to figure out how to _solve it._ “Making it smaller means more rotations, which means more power. The core was different too. Palladium works, because of the relays, but with that much energy from the plasma channels it decayed fast—”

“Tony.” Rhodey softly interrupts, throwing him a _look_ , and Tony sighs before gathering himself and continuing, less erratically.

“Badassium helped stabilize it. It’s stronger, conducts more energy. Also… doesn’t… it’s not poisonous.” Tony points out, very plainly. “And it’s more efficient and it’s not breaking apart every two weeks, so it works better. The Reactor from Mark I produced 3 gigajoules per second. Today, any of my Reactors produces at least 6.”

“And you can replicate it.” Rogers says, not as a question, but an affirmation. Tony nods. “You think the Tesseract might work in a similar way?”

“Somewhat.” Tony admits. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s inside an infinity Stone, or even what it’s made of, but if anything, it’s producing energy the same way a Reactor does. Or the other way around. It certainly doesn’t reach the same levels of energy, but it got stronger since I made my own version. If there’s a way to improve on _that—_ ”

“We might have something strong enough to fight back.”

And if it works the same, it could _break_ the same.

(In his chest.)

(This entire time.)

Barton takes another glance at the Reactor, wary. “You don’t open portals with that thing, do you?”

“Not yet.” Tony hisses, frustrated. “But if there’s a way to do it, I’m going to find out how.”

“Okay.” Bruce breathes deep, trying to maintain his composure. “Okay, we’ll get back to that. As soon as possible. But let’s stay focused. 2012, Project PEGASUS. We’re gonna need every document we can find on that. And… And you father’s notes too.”

“I have them.” Tony assures him. “I got it.”

“So what then?”

“Loki comes in with the scepter, and that’s our first contact with the Mind Stone.” Barton provides, if a little coldly.

On cue, a replica of the Mind Stone, it’s small size and vibrant yellow color glimmering in the projection, appears, and next to it, images of Loki’s scepter and an entire profile on Loki himself appear beneath the marker for 2012.

Thor steps closer to the panel, eyes lost in thought; feet light, but shoulders slumped, a stiffness to his frame that is awkward in his large body. He stares at Loki’s picture, and doesn’t say a word.

_Loki._

Where is Loki?

Thor hasn’t… he hasn’t said a word.

Has Loki—

“He takes the Tesseract, and the scepter, and he builds a portal. He brings the Chitauri with it.” Barton recalls.

“Erik Selvig probably has the notes on the portal.” Natasha reminds them.

“Not sure.” Barton admits begrudgingly. “We didn’t have all the information about the plan, all we knew was what each of us needed to know. Nothing more.”

“Selvig seemed to have some level of consciousness when he built the portal, if he hadn’t he wouldn’t have added a failsafe. And he did. Besides, after Loki was taken, the portal fell into SHIELD custody. I’m sure they had files on it.”

“They did.” FRIDAY adds, and a profile for Erik Selvig is also added to the board in 2012, along with notes for the Chitauri army.

“We also have some notes on it.” Bruce remembers, and then turns to Tony with focused eyes. “Remember when Loki ordered them to get Iridium?”

“Stabilizer.” Tony says in agreement.

“Which means the cube still has some limitations, even if it’s alien. It could open the portal, but it couldn’t hold it open without collapsing. Gravity would force it to close itself. If we can cross-reference Selvig’s notes with your notes on the Reactor and your father’s notes on the _Tesseract_ , we might get a full picture of how it _really_ works.”

Iridium goes in the board too.

2012 suddenly begins to look very, very crowded in that panel.

“Put a pin on that too.” Tony says, agitated. “Next. We blow them up, get the cube, and Thor takes it back to Asgard.”

“And it stayed there, until Ragnarok arrived.” Thor informs, sounding forlorn, his eyes still locked onto Loki’s picture in the board.

Loki – shit, Loki probably didn’t survive, did he? Thor staring at his picture like he’s trying to drink in the sight of him, like he has to absorb every detail before the picture is taken away, as if that would take his brother away forever; That’s not… No one does that.

Tony gets the feeling something really, really bad happened. Ragnarok.

Isn’t Ragnarok the end of the world?

(It is.)

(It _is._ )

“It hadn’t been used since.” Thor continues, and after a beat, a deep, shuddering breath escapes his parted lips, his eyes dropping to the floor in what almost looks like shame, and he turns his back; to Loki’s picture, to the Tesseract, to the entire thing. He turns to them like a prisoner awaiting sentence, expecting judgment, and sorrowfully, he says, “Loki took it, when we escaped – and Thanos took it from him, when he attacked our ship, and… And killed him. Killed my people.”

_Killed his people._

Thanos had gotten to Asgard before them. Thanos had… _shit._

Oh – _shit._ Loki had the Tesseract. And Thanos found them – _fuck._

“Thor—” Bruce starts, but Thor doesn’t give him the chance to speak before interrupting, forcing his voice clearer and louder, pretending they can’t see the way his eyes glimmer with unshed tears.

“It was also what he used to escape.” Thor says, after trying to hide a sniffle. “When the fight was over. He opened a portal and just disappeared.”

“What about your people?” Tony asks, because he has to. He has to ask.

“Half of them escaped.” Thor says, mutedly. “I don’t know where. Valkyrie hasn’t made contact since. I can only hope they are safe.”

 _Valkyrie._ An _actual_ Valkyrie? Jesus Christ.

“That’s all I know.” Thor concludes, shaking his shoulders as if to try to disperse the invisible weight on them, as if hands are gripping him and he can’t stand their touch on his skin. “And now we’re here.”

Now they are here.

“That’s our timeline.” Natasha says sourly, staring at the panel, lips pursing in displeasure and eyes sharp.

“For the _Tesseract._ ” Clint bitterly points out. “We still have five others to go.”

“We barely have any info on most of them.” Rhodey complains. “Nebula said no one knew about the Soul Stone, and Thanos just _got it_. We have no idea if someone had it first, or what it does.”

“And if we don’t find Wong, I don’t know if we’ll have anything on the Time Stone either.” Bruce recalls.

“Not even if we go to his… _sanctuary?_ ” Rogers asks, awkwardly.

“Sanctum.” Tony corrects. “Maybe. He looked like the kind of guy who would have a fancy library with spell books or… _whatever_. I don’t know, could be worth a check.”

Tony’s suggestion is off-handed at most, but Rogers nods like it was a request to be fulfilled, and he assures, “We’ll do it.”

“What about the Power Stone?” Nebula asks suddenly, turning towards Rocket.

“We actually don’t know much either.” Rocket admits, his face incredibly frustrated for a raccoon. “Quill found it in Morag – it’s nowhere special, just one of many rocks floating in space, no rules, no supervision. Askin’ to be stolen, if you ask me. There was a Kree guy lookin’ for it, Gamora too.”

None of them have any idea what a _Kree guy_ is, but Tony supposes it’s another kind of alien. Gamora, however, is a name he’s been hearing a lot.

“What did they want with it?”

“Same thing Thanos did. It’s the _Power_ Stone.” Rocket drawls sarcastically. “It packed one hell of a punch. It reacted to anything organic. The bigger the target, the bigger the surge.”

“So it worked almost the same. It released energy and that energy looked for a host. Instead of modifying space and time, it attached to people. Living things.” Bruce considers.

“Makes sense.” Tony affirms. Guesses. He’s not sure yet. Not knowing how it works makes the logic of it hazy all around. “Wong did say each Stone attaches to one aspect that controls life. They might all work the same, but act on different objects.”

“How can they be composed of the same chemical properties, have the same energy systems, but act on different things?” Bruce questions, frowning.  “How can they know what to act on?”

“Guess we’ll have to figure it out.” Tony exhales, and because he _doesn’t want to think about that just now_ , he simply blurts out, “Thor. What do you have on the Reality Stone?”

Tony almost feels a little bad with the overwhelming attention that suddenly turns to Thor, all eyes trained on him in the span of a second, watching every move.

“First I heard of it was in 2013, when Jane slipped through one of the portals of the Convergence.” Thor says nonchalantly, as if he’s not saying a bunch of things that make absolutely no sense.

“Wait, Imma need you to stop right there and explain that.” Tony raises a finger, blinking owlishly. “The what now?”

“The Convergence is an event where all the Nine Realms align across the universe. An alignment that takes millennia between every occurrence. In 2013, they aligned. And though not many beings can feel it, much less see it, it is there.” Thor explains, making gestures to try to aid his words, but without any visual to back up the words, it just looks like… a very weird imitation of hand-wavy magic. Or maybe every bit of weird hand-wavy magic. “Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life, is constantly moving. Sometimes, the branches that hold the Realms align, and it opens passages between them. One of those passages led Jane to the Stone.”

“A tree?” Rhodey asks, with arched brows.

“A literal tree?” Rocket frowns.

“More like a metaphor.” Thor mumbles.

“Okay, this is too much. Time out.” Tony begs, making a stop motion with his hands. “We’re not getting anywhere with this.”

“The Reality Stone is able to create illusions.” Thor offers, a little louder, so they all pay attention to what he’s saying. “Visual illusions, yes, but also in a way that distorts reality itself. A being can give itself a larger, stronger form, one can walk a path where there is none, and it – it always looks for a host.”

Thor stops, as if surprised by his own words.

“Like the Power Stone.” Rocket concludes. “And probably like all the others.”

“Could they be looking for something?” Natasha asks, dubiously. “The Stones. Is it possible that they are searching for something specific across the universe? A host?”

“They have consciousness.”

They all stop.

They stare. Bruce fidgets under their gaze.

“Remember the Mind Stone?” Bruce prompts, gesturing to Tony. “What we found inside it? That was… crazy. That was not just a composition of a chemical component, it was an entire _network_ of information, like _neurons._ They were passing that information to one another. The reason why Vision could even _exist_ in the first place was because those things inside the Stone were _synapses._ It was thinking. So there is some level of… well – maybe not _consciousness_ , but _sentience._ ”

“It’s the _Mind_ Stone.” Tony argues. “If any of them would have something like that inside, it would be that one.”

“But didn’t we just consider that they all might have the same components? Doesn’t that mean the others might have some sentience too?” Bruce counters, hunching his shoulders.

“It would explain mind control.” Barton adds.

“Also Jane’s behavior.” Thor says, distractedly. “When she stumbled upon the Reality Stone, it lodged itself inside her; and when Malekith found us, she recognized him. She had no reason to, but she did. I think the Stone might have been responsible. It is possible the Stones remember their hosts.”

“The Stone didn’t kill her?” Rocket asks, confused, and with a strange twinge of surprise in his voice. “Just touching the Power Stone killed a bunch of people.”

“It was killing her. Slowly.” Thor admits, his voice straining painfully. “Malekith removed it from her before it could happen, but I don’t know what we could have done if he hadn’t.”

“He removed it?” Rogers repeats, alarmed. “How?”

“I don’t know.” Thor says. “He simply… reached out and the Stone flowed out of her, towards him. Like I said, it was fluid. Maybe because the Dark Elves are manipulators of dark energy, and the Reality Stone acts on dark energy and dark matter, he could do it. We tried, with many of Asgard’s finest spells, and none of it helped.”

Bruce jumps in a startled gasp. “The Reality Stone does _what_?”

“Manipulate dark energy?”

“ _Seriously_?”

Thor looks taken aback, overwhelmed by Bruce’s outburst. “Dark matter and dark energy are powerful forces. To control them means to control one of the universe’s foundations itself. Even in Asgard, our most powerful sorcerers don’t have a full grasp on their properties and strengths. It makes sense than an Infinity Stone would rule over it.”

“You _use_ dark energy in Asgard?” Bruce asks, incredulous, looking around the room to see if anyone is as astonished by this information as he is. They are not. But to be fair, they probably don’t know how beyond _shocking_ this revelation is. Tony himself wouldn’t have known, hadn’t he read on the subject years ago, when preparing to meet Bruce for the first time in 2012. It’s wasn’t even Bruce’s field of expertise. It was just… the pink, polka-dotted elephant in every physicists’ room. “Do you know what it _is?_ ”

“One of the many forces of the universe. It is one of the essential components for the Bifrost.” Thor replies managing to sound both incredibly vague and incredibly defensive at the same time.

“Yes, and physicists have been trying to discover what it is for _decades._ And you’re out there _using_ it.” Bruce exasperatedly says. “Thor, you can’t just _say that_ and expect me to not freak out!”

Thor, who admittedly has no fault, looks at the others, baffled and in clear need for rescue. They all stare back, even more confused.

“Okay, we’ll get back to that.” Tony quickly intervenes, for both Bruce’s and Thor’s sake, stepping forward so he can bodily block the vision between the two of them, hoping a barrier will make them retreat instinctively. “So we actually have some information on the Reality Stone, and that’s good. How did you get it back, after the… whoever took it from your girlfriend?”

“I tried to destroy it with Mjolnir. It didn’t work.” Thor desolately admits. “The Stone just pieced itself back together and Malekith took it.”

“But you did get it back, because you said the Stone was in nowhere.” Rocket says, and then pauses. “Wait. Did _you_ leave the Stone with the _Collector_? The guy is a total whack-job!”

“Nowhere?” Rhodey asks, frowning. “What the hell does that mean, did you _lose_ it?”

“No, _Knowhere_. With a K. It’s a place.” Rocket clarifies. “And the Collector is a crazy guy who likes to keep all sorts of things in cages for fun, from shiny things to people.”

Oh, _yikes._ What the – Where is this conversation _going_?

Tony has a splitting headache.

He’s not even sure he knows what he’s doing here anymore.

“Jane helped us create a trap, of sorts, that incapacitated Malekith. She and Erik Selvig helped me in the fight, and when Malekith was dead, the Stone just…” He makes a wavy gesture with his hand. “Escaped from his body. That’s when we gathered a proper place to keep it, a case specifically made to contain powerful objects such as the Aether. And when we secured it, I returned to Asgard, and my friends took the Aether to the Collector, hoping it would be safe.”

“Well, _that_ didn’t work out.” Rocket mutters, looking to the side with exaggeratedly wide eyes, like he’s questioning Thor’s sanity on this statement alone. Nebula stares at him, and pays him no mind.

“There’s no chance this guy didn’t use the Stone on his own?” Natasha inquires Thor, with just a hint of steel in her voice. “Are you sure no one else touched it since you left it there?”

“I don’t think he would have.” Thor says as a defense, fully honest. “The Collector is an odd man, maybe a bit of a lunatic, but he is no fool. Even for someone like him, some powers are not to be careless with.”

“Well, _something_ happened.” Rocket complains. “Because when we separated, Quill and the others headed to Knowhere to get it, and in the end, Thanos got the Stone! So whatever he did, it was not enough.”

“When did Thanos get the Reality Stone?” Tony asks, an idea sparking in his head.

“I don’t know! Hard to know when anything is happening in _space._ Not like I have a watch!” Rocket snaps.

“Okay – what _Stones_ did he _have_?” Tony clarifies, and when Rocket looks at him like he lost his marbles, he explains, “We need to stablish a timeline for Thanos’ attack. We are too many, with too many different pieces of information, and we’re gonna get lost if we don’t know what we’re working with. So we also need to know where he got them, when, and how.”

Thor steps closer, eager to contribute. “The first Stone he got was the Power Stone. It was the only Stone in his Gauntlet, until he found us on the ship and stole the Tesseract.”

“FRI, write that down.” Tony orders, though he can see, even though his frantic looks to the others, from the corner of his eye in a quick glance, the projection board on the wall across the room – and FRIDAY has _definitely_ been taking notes of _everything._ “Okay, Power and Space. What’s next?”

“Reality.” Rocket remembers. “That’s when we found Thor after his ship sent out a distress call. He said Thanos couldn’t get the other Stones first, and the Reality was closer, so the others went to Knowhere to get it while Thor and we headed to Nidavellir, to get him a weapon.”

“So that’s… what? Give me a color.”

“What?”

“Each Stone has a color. Give me a color.”

Rocket bristles. “I have no idea what color the Stone is, are you freaking—?”

“Red.” Thor interrupts. “The Reality Stone is red. The Power Stone is purple and the Space Stone is blue.”

“And that’s important… why?” Barton asks, unimpressed.

“Because I saw the Gauntlet and I know which ones he had based on what color custom jewelry he already added to the collection.” Tony replied, words dripping with snark. “We meet him on Titan. When he got there, he had, purple, blue, red, and orange. Which one is the orange one?”

“Soul.” Nebula and Bruce reply at the same time; one, with rapid logic, the other, with gut-wrenching agony in her voice. Nebula seems embarrassed by her outburst, shying away from Bruce’s glance with a turn of her face, and in turn, Rocket looks at her by his side with an incredibly raw look of pain on his face.

“So he got that one sometime in between the Reality and Time, because that’s what he took from Strange when we were up there.” Tony points out.

“That’s when he took Gamora.” Nebula concludes, and then stops.

Stops, as in – her entire body locks up, as if she’s been shocked with a live wire; and although she doesn’t jump, or startle, the movement is perceptible, the sudden cut of air between her words and her silence, the strangled breath that dies as it passes her lips, making no sound, like it’s blinking out of existence as soon as it manifests.

_Oh._

(That’s when it happened.)

(That’s when she lost her sister.)

Tony doesn’t know Gamora, didn’t even get the chance to meet her when the Guardians found them on Titan. By then, Thanos had already taken her. But he understands. Tony feels an echo of Nebula’s pain in his own chest, a hollow thrum that stings with every heartbeat, the corners and edges still hot and sharp when they move and breathe. Aching loss. Tony can so easily imagine the kind of woman Gamora must have been – Nebula’s sister, she sure would have been just as fierce, just as precise and determined.

Maybe they were close. Maybe they weren’t. He doesn’t dare to hope for one or the other.

He has no idea if it would hurt less anyway.

If Nebula knows what happened to her – she’ll have to tell them. That’s not… That’s not fair. On one hand, he wants to hear it, they need to hear it, but it’s still not _fair._ To make her say the words out loud. It’s not fair that Nebula, that Tony knows for a fact takes no bullshit from anyone or anything, that snaps and snarls when she feels like the slightest inconvenience is getting too close, its not _fair_ that she is the one averting her gaze, the dark of her eyes somehow even deeper, even hollowed, like the universe it reflects somehow has grown too large and too empty, too barren for any emotion other than sadness to fill it.

Tony wants to know what happened – but he _doesn’t_ at the same time.

He doesn’t want her to do this.

He doesn’t want her to go back there.

(It’s not _fair._ )

“I was aboard Thanos’ ship when he brought her in.” Nebula confesses, head still bowed low, her eyes fixed at a random point on the floor, as if she could see the memory unfolding before her eyes like it was happening to someone else, like a movie reel playing in a way only she could see. “I had snuck in days before. I tried to kill him. But the Black Order was there and they were too many, and I was captured.”

That fucking monster. That – Tony has never felt anger such as this before.

This is merciless. It’s _disgusting._

(He has to _pay_ for that.)

“He tortured me.” Nebula admits, and it rankles that she sounds _ashamed_ of it, like this is somehow her fault, like she could ever deserve such a treatment from that bastard that dared to call himself her father. “For days. It never ended. He took me apart, piece by piece, and left me there, pulling at the parts like I was nothing but a circuit he could destroy. I… I didn’t tell him anything. He wanted to find Gamora, and I didn’t tell him how. But he found her anyway. Probably in Knowhere. He must have captured her after he got the Reality Stone.”

There is no one who can confirm this, but it fits. The timeline fits. Rocket’s eyes go wide with shock, glistening with something that looks way too much like tears, and a deep, unsettling discomfort settles between them, uneasiness so thick it's almost solid, a foreign presence sneaking in to taunt them from the cracks between the silence.

“She was the only one who knew where the Soul Stone was. There was a map, and she found it, and burned it – but not before looking. So she knew. And Thanos knew she knew. So he… used me to make her talk.”

Why is she telling them this. Why, _why_.

She was captured. She was _tortured_.

 _God_ , Nebula.

She didn’t deserve it. It’s not fair. That was her sister.

It’s not _fair._

“He could have killed me, but he didn’t. So he didn’t need to hurt her. All he had to do was to hurt me.” She mumbles. “She was always his favorite.”

Tony hates that deep down, somewhere beneath the jumble of twisted feelings swirling in his core, the nauseating mixture of dread and sorrow, the rancid taste of blood and tears that seem to stain his tongue, he still has time to feel a twinge of too familiar sympathy for Nebula’s shy admittance, like he’s making this about _himself_ , when she is the one who’s clearly so distressed over the tale of the fall of her sister.

This is not about him.

It doesn’t matter if he knows what that’s like. To be second. To never live up to the favorite.

He knows what it’s like. But this is not about him.

There’s a beat, a pause, silent but so, so loud, like a painful pulse before a heart attack.

“You’re a daughter of Thanos.” Thor exhales, voice raspy and raw, realization shining bright like lightning in his mismatched eyes. “Aren’t you?”

Nebula gives a shaky nod.

_Shit._

Barton fumbles like he suddenly took a hit to the head, shifting in his feet and mouth opening in shock, no words forthcoming, only a confused mumble and an outraged expression, as if he can’t process the information correctly in his brain. Rogers and Romanov, in turn, immediately stiffen, eyes zeroing on Nebula with uncomfortable precision, the critical stare of a threat assessment, and Tony unthinkingly jumps to her defense, stepping closer to where she’s sitting and fully prepared to step in from of her to make himself a shield if he has to.

It doesn’t escape his notice that Rocket moves closer too, his tiny hands reaching for his belt. Probably, for a weapon.

Tony knows Nebula doesn’t need his help. She might even beat him up herself for acting like she does. But it’s _instinct._ And because he knows this, because his mind goes so quickly through a flurry of – _she’s not a threat_ , to _oh, she’ll kill me for this_ , to _doesn’t matter, won’t let her get hurt_ , to _gotta change the subject, quick_ —

All that comes out of his mouth is:

“He took her and what did you do?” He asks, because he has to keep pressing, has to keep her talking, so the others won’t have time to intervene and make any sort of accusation.

She said she tried to kill Thanos. They all heard her. She _said_ it. Tony knows she doesn’t mean them any harm.

She wouldn’t have _saved him_ if she did. She saved him.

He needs to make that clear.

“I escaped.” Nebula says, very pointedly, also making herself very clear and enunciating her words carefully, to make sure she cannot be misunderstood. “Most of his army started to move, so I had a chance. I went past the guards, sent a warning sign to Mantis, and asked her to meet me on Titan, because I knew that would be his meeting point. I thought we could try and ambush him.”

“And that’s when you found me.”

“That’s right.”

See? It’s simple. It’s just what it sounds like.

Tony knows she’s not lying.

Tony had seen her drive a ship straight into Thanos’ head, to charge against him with electric batons and a raging scream, asking for her sister and bloodthirsty for revenge. Tony knows in his heart, in the very core of himself, that out of all of them, Nebula has been the one who has suffered by Thanos’ hands the longest – and she _deserves_ to be here. They are going to bring him _down,_ they are going to undo the damage he left behind, and Nebula _deserves_ to be here to see it. To make it happen. She is nothing like those others, the Black Order, because those bastards were just like Thanos and Nebula is _not._

 _See_ , Tony asks, with eyes wide and pleading. See? _She’s an ally._

The others stare back, uneasily, but they force themselves to relax. After a few seconds, they breathe, they pause, and then, they truly retreat, eyes soft and mellow again, dragged down by their grief, and there is no place left for the misplaced rage to burn beneath the bone-deep exhaustion.

Tony stutters in a sigh of relief.

And suddenly, despite how Nebula might react to his intervention, he steps forward, and decides this conversation needs to stop focusing on her _right now._

“Thanos was expecting to have the Time and Mind Stones already when he got to Titan – that’s what he sent his minions for.” He proceed, with all the familiarity of a businessman, a no-nonsense, no leeway speech that now comes almost as second nature to him, forged on decades of performance and need to make himself taller among giants. He hates using it, but he’ll do it, if he _has to._ “He couldn’t get the Time Stone in New York, so he fought for it when he got there.”

(And he won.)

“Made us look like children fighting with sticks.” He admits with bitterness. “He was strong. He didn’t even have all the Stones yet, but he still was strong. We couldn’t _stop_ him.”

( _Tony_ couldn’t stop him.)

“He stabbed you.” Nebula says, as if it’s a reassurance. As if that is an explanation for his failure.

“I tried all I could.” Tony admits, which only makes everything worse. Because he did. He did try his best, he used every weapon in his arsenal, and it still wasn’t enough. “In the end, Strange gave him the Stone and we couldn’t do anything.”

Great. Amazing change of subject, Tony. Way to go.

The workshop goes deadly-quiet. Hopelessness envelops them like tar, tainting and consuming, dragging down in waves of thick, vile floods of black, until they are all swallowed by the dark.

“He took the Stone and left. Opened a portal and stepped through, just like you said. And then we were up there, trying to get back. That’s when it _happened._ ” Tony says in a murmur, looking down, fearing the others might see too much if they can see his eyes. “What happened down here? When he… got the last one?”

Because Tony knows what happened for Thanos to get the last one.

He killed _Vision._

“We took Vision to Wakanda.” Rogers recalls, even his usual straightforward, almost earnest tone muted by heavy mourning. “We needed to get the Stone out of Vision’s head before Thanos got the chance to get too close. The only one who could help was Shuri, King T’Challa’s sister.”

“Heard she’s a genius.” Tony grumbles, the joke falling short even before it leaves his lips.

“She is.” Natasha confirms.

 _Is._ Present tense.

Tony will take this miserable amount of relief if he can.

“Vision was more than just the Stone.” Bruce says, and by the way he says it, it’s not the first time he’s done this speech. “We thought maybe if we could remove it, Vision would still be well enough that he could live without it. And Wanda could destroy the Stone.”

“Wanda’s powers came from the Mind Stone.” Tony remembers, from his conversation with Bruce in the med bay. “You thought of using the Stone’s power against itself.”

“Vision’s idea, actually.” Bruce admits. “I don’t know how, but he figured it out. And he was right, because it worked.”

But not enough, right?

It worked.

But not enough.

“Thanos sent an army ahead. We tried to hold them back while Shuri worked in the lab to remove the Stone from Vision.” Rogers continues.

Tony swallows around nothing, mouth oddly dry. “Chitauri?”

Rogers shakes his head. “Something called the Outriders. Gigantic ships of them. We were in a tough spot, but we could hold them. And then suddenly… This huge alien steps off a portal with a Gauntlet in his hand, and he goes through us like we’re invisible.”

“Knocked every single one of us down.” Natasha grows. “Didn’t even break a sweat.”

“Wanda destroyed the Mind Stone, but after Thanos got Time… We had already lost.” Bruce says, and it sounds like it hurts, like it physically pains him to say it – like the words drag like knives, “I saw it. She blew it to pieces, and all Thanos did was use the Time Stone and put it back together.”

(Like Tony warned them.)

(The Time Stone was the best chance.)

(He _told_ them.)

“The Time Stone is the most dangerous of them all.” Natasha says. “Because whatever we do, if he has that one, he can simply undo it. It never ends.”

“So that one is the one we need first.” Tony concludes. “Out of all of them, the most dangerous has to go first. The others may pack a punch, but we can’t _do_ anything if he keeps undoing all of our attacks. Either we keep him busy so he can’t use it, or we get it from him before he even gets the chance.”

“What about the Mind Stone? That doesn’t sound good either.” Rocket asks, frowning at the board. “You guys have anythin’ on that one?”

“More than we’d like.” Rhodey grumbles, huffing.

Undeterred, Rogers explains, “After Loki was gone, the scepter went to SHIELD – and SHIELD was HYDRA, so someone took the scepter and shipped it off to Strucker, in Sokovia. There, he used it to experiment on people, trying to create superhumans.”

“Wanda and Pietro.” Barton says in a whisper.

“The only ones who survived.” Natasha nods, somberly.

“We don’t know if Pietro had anything other than his physical abilities, but Wanda’s powers were directly involved with the Mind Stone, even more than her brother’s.” Rogers points out.

“That was in…” Rhodey prompts.

“2015.” Bruce supplies. “And it means that _people_ can be used as carriers of the energy of the Stones too, not just objects. Again, also explains the mind control.”

“Wouldn’t that make Wanda and Pietro hosts?” Natasha inquires. “What’s the difference between being a host and just being injected with power from a Stone?”

“The Stone wasn’t killing them.” Rogers says. “Not that we know of. It changed them, that’s all.”

“I – I don’t know if we can call them hosts.” Bruce admits. “Strucker was the one using it – We don’t know if the Stones make any differentiation between host and owner, or host or carrier, or any distinction at all. Maybe it’s like locality influence. They affect – and are affected – but anything that comes too close. And that’s why they need to be kept in lock.”

“Yeah, I have a question.” Barton interrupts, frowning. “If there was a super powerful stone or whatever inside that scepter, where did Loki find that thing?”

“Thanos gave it to him.” Bruce explains. “It was _always_ Thanos. He was the one who sent Loki. _Loki_ was probably mind controlled too, if you think about it.”

“I’d rather not.” Barton hisses, but lacking any real heat. “And if Thanos was the one who sent Loki, why would he give him an Infinity Stone? Even if it was inside the scepter? Doesn’t that seem weird, to just hand over one of the strongest weapons in your arsenal to a guy you don’t even know if he can do the job?”

“Maybe he didn’t know?” Rocket suggests.

“Oh, he knew.” Nebula counters, her voice scratching with the weight of her sarcasm. “He was looking for those Stones for years. Far longer than you think.”

“Then why would he give it away?!”

“He didn’t. He knew he would get it back.”

“Yeah, I _guess_ , but he had to come all the way here to pick it up.” Rocket grumbles. “Was it really worth it? Giving it to someone else, not knowing if it would ever come back?”

“Thanos doesn’t think he can lose.” Nebula snarls. “He thinks whatever happens, the Stones will always come to him. He’s insane. He thinks it’s his… _destiny_ to have them.”

“Like he’s their final host?” Bruce suggests.

“Like he’s the only one who won’t die if he uses all six.” Nebula adds, in a voice that’s all venom and acid. “Which he _didn’t_. So I guess he was _right._ ”

“Not if we make this work.” Thor argues.

“We know—” Tony starts, but then has to stop, because his voice cracks and his breath stutters, starting to get too overwhelmed by the onslaught of discussion and information that’s being brought forward, and he takes a moment to blink away the blurriness in his sight and to gather air, before continuing. “We know it’s possible to use them separately. Strange used the Time Stone, Loki used the Tesseract, HYDRA used the Mind Stone. Individually, they can be held.”

“How does that help us stealing the stones from Thanos? He’s got all six.” Rocket bitterly complains. “Are we gonna get them one by one?”

“If we have to.” Tony snaps.

“And where are we gonna put ‘em?”

“In the _Gauntlet._ Our Gauntlet.”

“But doesn’t that mean we should be focusing on the _Gauntlet_?” Rocket insists. “Maybe it’s not that tough. Maybe it doesn’t matter what they’re made of, only matters what they can do. We just have to go out there and find some more of this special alien material. It might not even be hard to find! Ronan had a staff that could hold the Power Stone! So whatever it was made of, the Kree probably have more!”

“Who’s Ronan?” Rhodey asks in an awkward whisper.

“The Kree guy who fought my sister for the Stone.” Nebula answers, with a shrug. “An idiot.”

“You want to search for the Kree and ask for their metal?” Thor squints, as if it’s an idiotic idea. And maybe it is. Tony has no freaking idea. “What’s next, should we find some more Dark Elves to help us steal the Reality Stone from Thanos?”

“Look, I’m tryin’ to lay down our options, okay?” Rocket barks defensively.

“We shouldn’t leave Earth it’s absolutely necessary.” Rogers says, in a tone that is all command and authority, which only makes the absurdity of his words even more… _absurd_. “That would mean separating us and that’s the last thing we need now. If these Kree are dangerous, it’s best if we stay clear. They probably lost people, like we did. Getting unwanted visitors will probably not be something they’ll be happy with.”

But that’s a good point.

That’s… that’s an extremely good point.

Tony belatedly wonders if there are other planets out there who are suffering from the same thing they are now. If they are decaying like Earth is, or by something else, or if there’s any other left by now. They have no way of knowing. Almost four billion in their planet only – but how many more out there? How many trillions, quadrillions – if there’s any way to even count them all?

_Shit._

Both Thor and Rocket nod, although Rocket seems very dismayed by the quick rejection of his plan.

“We _need_ to know what they’re made of so we can _stop them_ from working if he tries to _attack us._ ” Tony says irritably. “Knowing what they’re made of can help us know what they can _do._ He used one of them to throw a goddamned _moon_ at me. _Removed it from orbit_. I don’t know about _you_ , but something that does that is not normal for me and I’m not gonna let _magic_ be the explanation for it. I don’t do magic. I do science. And if we’re going out there, and fighting that guy, _magic_ is not going to be enough!”

“Magic is just science you don’t understand yet.” Thor unexpectedly says, and Tony has to stop and turn to look at him, dumbfounded. Thor looks back with a disarmingly soft look in his eyes. “Jane used to say that.”

“He threw a _moon_ at you?” Rhodey asks, almost aggressive in his shock. “The hell do you mean by that?”

“Saturn is not gonna miss a moon, it has a lot of them, it’ll be fine.”

“That’s not the _point_!”

“No, the _point_ is that we’re arguing about things that don’t matter when we should be going over what we have already! We have a lot!”

Tony looks at the board.

_Holy shit._

“We…” Tony breathes. “We have a lot of work.”

The silence in the room is very, very telling of what they all feel when they realize just _how difficult_ this will be.

“But that’s important information.” Tony admits, pointing to Rocket in affirmation, after a brief second of consideration.

“What?” Rocket asks, confused.

“What you said about the Kree guy. That’s important. FRI, write that down. That means it’s not just this Uru metal that works, because if Thor says it’s special, some random guy wouldn’t have it just laying around, right? Right. So it must be something else. We might have other options, maybe here on Earth. It would be the best thing – we don’t have much time to figure out how we’re gonna do this before…”

“Before the dust kills us all.” Rocket says curtly, eyes dark with sadness.

“Yeah.” Tony agrees, his lips twisting in bitter resignation.

Tony taps his fingers against his thigh, jittery, scratching his lower lip with his teeth in a nervous tick – should he pull up the simulations of the alloys for the armor? It seemed to hold on pretty well, all things considered. Maybe some of the other alloys could hold on even better, if he went back to the standard model instead of nanotech. What about – can he make something directly with Badassium? _Should he_? He never tried. He doesn’t know if he’ll have time. The best thing would be if they had a sample of something to start with. Strange’s goddamned necklace would’ve been _perfect_ , fuck. The scepter is gone and so is the Tesseract, but maybe in old SHIELD files—

Natasha suddenly stands up, scaring the shit out of everybody. “The weapons from Thanos’ army.”

They turn to her, clearly not following.

“What about them?” Bruce inquires.

“Alien metal.”

“The Chitauri also seemed like they had a different kind of metal, but after SHIELD collected the weapons it was all regular metal boosted up with Infinity Stone juice.” Tony shrugs, crossing his arms defensively. He hopes no one asks why he was reading reports on Chitauri metal in the first place.

“One of them stabbed Vision and the wound stopped him from phasing.” Natasha frantically says, as if she’s unsettled that they don’t understand the severity of her revelation. “What kind of metal could do that, even if it was enhanced with an Infinity Stone?”

He doesn’t know.

“It’s worth the try.” Bruce insists, looking at Tony with pleading eyes. “Whatever Thanos gave them, even if it’s not exactly a new kind of element, it was definitely pretty strong. Maybe it could give us a hint that would speed this up.”

Tony rubs his eyes with a hand roughly, so roughly that it actually is not relaxing at all, just painful, a sting of hot sharp static burning at the back of his head. God, this is exhausting.

“Call Okoye.” Rogers says, to Natasha, probably, while Tony drags his hand across his face with a tired sigh. “Ask her if they kept the spear we got in the woods. Tell her we’re picking it up as soon as possible.”

“You’re flying back to Wakanda?” Tony asks, frowning deeply.

“We have to gather everything we can.”

“I thought we shouldn’t be separated.” Thor raises an eyebrow, shuffling uncomfortably where he stands.

“Just enough so we could bring them here.”

“The Quinjet is gonna go out of commission soon, it’ll be too dark to fly anywhere.” Rhodey points out dejectedly.

“So I should go.” Thor says. “Stormbreaker is faster.”

“Actually.” Bruce steps forward to Thor, a little frantic. “I think we might need your weapon too, Thor. If it’s the only thing here that is made of this… Uru metal, we need to take a look at what it is.”

“You want to destroy it?” Thor asks, as if Bruce has just shot him in the chest.

“No!” Bruce scrambles for a better wording. “Just a sample. Maybe some tests. But we need you to be here.”

“How fast does the jet fly?” Nebula asks, suddenly.

“At max speed, Wakanda is about eleven hours away.” Natasha replies.

“I’ll make it eight.” Nebula confidently affirms, and stands up. “Our ship is faster. Let them know I’m coming and have the weapon ready. I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

“Wait, now, hold on a second – _your ship?_ What ship?” Rocket demands.

“The big orange one. You know. The idiot’s.”

“You have Quill’s ship?!” Rocket exclaims. “Hey, it’s not _your_ ship, it’s _our_ ship. It’s _my_ ship!”

“Whatever.” Nebula says dismissively, and walks out with no fuss whatsoever.

“ _Hey!_ You’re not walking outta here alone, taking my ship, _I’m comin’ too!_ ” Rocket shouts, hurrying behind her with his short legs, annoyance crystal clear in his eyes. Hastily, he turns to Natasha and Rogers, never slowing his tiny steps, and growls, “Tell them not no shoot us! We’re getting that spear and comin’ back!”

They leave, boisterously and suddenly, and somehow, the room seems even colder when they do. The awkward silence that falls upon them after Rocket’s irritated screams fade away is somehow hollow and too overbearing, disrupting the odd back and forth they had going on, the live wire of information and tension that buzzed around the room going from person to person, like two parts of a circuit have suddenly been removed.

Rogers takes the opportunity of silence to step forward, to stand beside Natasha, and after exchanging a quick look with her, he says:

“We’ll go looking for the sanctum. If we find anyone who can help, we’ll bring them back here with us.”

“Bleecker Street.” Bruce informs helpfully, even though, when Tony looks up, Rogers is staring directly at _him_ , and Tony is honestly being less then helpful right now and he knows it _._ “I can’t say the exact number but it – if it’s still there, it’s the building with a hole… on the... ceiling.”

Huh. Weird. They make a face at Bruce, but Bruce only shakes his head, somehow embarrassed, and gestures a dismissal with his hand.

“We’ll be as quick as we can.” Natasha assures. “We’re on comms. Anything comes up, let us know.”

“We will.” Tony nods.

“I’m coming too.” Barton interjects, stepping closer to Natasha. “Can’t really help with the Stones stuff, but a retrieval mission I can handle. Just point the way.”

“You’re sure?” Natasha asks, a little lower, and – so, so softly. So _kindly_. It somehow fills Tony with sadness.

“Yeah.” Barton clears his throat, to try to hide the roughness of his voice. “I’m sure.”

And they both look at Rogers – and it’s so familiar. It’s so familiar, so instinctual, almost second nature. It’s _ridiculous_ how easy it is for them to fall back into this routine, despite all reasons why it shouldn’t be.

Barton to fall in step with Natasha. Natasha to defer to Rogers. Rogers to lead them into the jaws of death.

They fall into their roles like dominos. Like they’re meant to. As if gravity itself pulls them all into this one place, this one spot – And Tony fears, for a moment, that this was inevitable. It is… the scariest, most horrible idea he can possibly fathom. That this would always have to happen, this tragedy, this cursed fate – that this is the only thing that would have dragged them back together after what happened, and in doing so, even if it changed everything… It hasn’t. It hasn’t changed a thing.

It’s not like Tony can’t see the logic in it, because he can. Even if Tony doesn’t always choose the most logical path, it’s not like can’t _see_ it. Based on their abilities, it’s fairly safe to assume they’d default to this organization. Natasha and Barton have always been more comfortable with following Rogers’ orders than anything else. It’s also only logical Bruce and Tony would stay back together and work on the science, and of course Rhodey would stay with Tony, and Thor… Well, Thor can always make room for himself wherever he pleases, he thinks. It’s not about bias, not really. But it’s hard not to notice, how similar it is, and hard not to wonder, if this is how is going to be.

And that’s stupid, and unfair, and a little too childish, because at the same time – should this bother him? Should he be glad? He doesn’t know.

They shouldn’t divide, but it would be a _lie_ to say Tony doesn’t need some space.

It’s selfish. He knows it is.

But he’s _tired._ He’s tired enough from the absolute madness that’s displayed on that panel, of the incredibly taxing and despairingly rushed tests and theories they’ll have to come up with and discard and cut down at lightning speed, with the constant reminder that literally the entire world – the entire _universe_ – is counting on them to make it work. Even if they don’t know it, everyone’s fate now depends on them, the _Avengers._ Who weren’t there because of a personal feud, of something so ridiculous it should never have happened, not when this threat existed out there.

Should they divide?

He doesn’t know if that’s best.

But he needs to _breathe_. That’s what he needs right now.

He needs his workshop a little emptier. He needs his thoughts not to be so scattered, so filled with white noise, to focus only on the information on the board and nothing else.

If he had the time, he’d go after Wong himself. He’d go to Wakanda himself.

(God, he would have died for the chance to do that in another moment.)

(Another life.)

But he can’t. So this is the next best thing. It’s dangerous, but it is what it is.

“Alright.” Tony agrees in a heavy exhale. “You get Wong, we’ll get this going on our side.”

The phrasing is a little distasteful, maybe. It certainly leaves a somewhat dry feeling in his mouth, like he’s just swallowed chalk; But it seems like it’s just him, because no one else reacts as if it sounded as bad as it felt. It’s a temporary divide, Tony should keep in mind. It’s to make it faster. They’ll come back. And so will Nebula and Rocket, and then, they’ll fit all the pieces together and they’ll make this right. That’s all it is.

Tony shouldn’t fear the fact that they are leaving, if they’re coming back.

They have to.

At least, this time. This time, they have to.

(Stupid.)

(That’s stupid. Stop that.)

They’ll be fine. It’s not so bad outside that they can’t handle themselves. And they have to do it now, while it’s still not dark.

“Tony.” Someone calls, and it takes a moment for Tony to realize it’s Rogers, Rogers, who’s heading for the door behind Natasha and Barton, but is hesitating, Rogers, with his brows furrowed and deep lines creasing his forehead, Rogers, who looks like he might actually come back if Tony tells him to.

(Do you want to?)

(Would you?)

“Yeah?”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Rogers’ jaw twitches a little. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

“Be careful.” Tony nods, a little too rushed; Too casual and too worried, too dismissive and too pleading, always, always too much. It’s stupid. He won’t dwell on it, not now. “Call in if anything goes wrong.”

Rogers falters—

Rogers nods.

Rogers goes.

And then, all that’s left is Tony, Bruce, Thor, and Rhodey. And a board filled to the brim.

It’s them, and years and years of unfiltered information; It’s them and the possible answer to their survival, hidden between lines and pictures and old data files, and he’s not sure they’ll be quick enough to find it. It’s Tony, and the shivers down his back at the sight of Rogers and the other two leaving, with both whispers of _stay_ and _go_ trapped inside his mouth, and no strength or desire to utter them out loud – and a group at his back, silent and watching, and unaware, unaware of the storm that rages within, oblivious to the ache that echoes inside, that Tony hides after a long blink, a breath, and a shudder.

Tony turns, and they are staring.

They are waiting.

“Let’s get to work.” He says.

And just for now, he forgets what’s beyond those doors – not the sky, not the dust. But the sound of fading footsteps, and the feeling that the room is, even for a brief second, even emptier than it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to send a quick message to everyone who left a review in the last chapter, and unfortunately didn't get a reply before this chapter was posted: sorry for the delay, but don't worry! I read your comment, for sure, and I deeply appreciate your support! I'll get back to you all as soon as I can - But I am on vacation right now, so forgive me if it takes a little while!  
> But I'll do my best to reply when I have some free time!
> 
> For now, thank you all for reading and commenting! I'll see you in the next one ;)


End file.
